


Time Passed

by coffinofachimera



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Bottom Harry, Canon Compliant, Crossdressing, Established Relationship, F/M, Feminine Harry, Feminization, Fights, Gender Dysphoria, Genderfluid Harry, Harry in Lingerie, Heavy Angst, Louis Tomlinson-centric, M/M, Miscommunication, Nonbinary Harry Styles, Slurs, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Louis Tomlinson, Trans Harry, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 66,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffinofachimera/pseuds/coffinofachimera
Summary: Louis struggles with their relationship as Harry grows into his identity.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 71
Kudos: 422





	1. inside that darkness, i saw rain falling on the sea. rain softly falling on a vast sea, with no one there to see it.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very close to my heart. I hope it can make you feel something good too.

It didn't seem like much at the time. Harry was really into getting eaten out. It seemed to always come up in sex, front place at the starting line.

In a pitch black hotel room in 2012 there was a first. Harry was on his back with legs spread, arms hooked on the back of his knees to keep the position. Making noises, all quiet for some imaginary listener they were always worried about. But Harry got to saying a thing or two when he didn't realize. Louis had his face buried in his ass, sucking and kissing with vigor and a hand on his own cock. Harry had just sucked him off, the spit he’d left making for a smooth, wet jack in his palm. And then Harry said it.

“Eat that pussy...”

Wasn't much of a saying. More of a murmur, a breath with a clip-on through the air. Louis heard it. 

It didn't seem like much at the time. But then, he hadn't thought about the circumstances that lead to his rimming his boyfriend's then-virgin hole. It was eight minutes into his earlier blowjob that his mind drifted from orbit around his own state of pleasure, and he thought he'd be a little giving.

“Want me to give you head?”

Yes, of course. “Yeah, yeah...” Harry pulled down his briefs and waited for Louis to get up from his seat on the edge of the bed. Louis was on his knees, ready for a cock to grab and bring to his mouth. 

But Harry just lied back, and pulled his knees up. And in the dark Louis could make out how his index and middle finger went down on either side of his hole to spread open— however open it could be— for the invitation. Eager, toes wiggling out of sight.

 _“I said head,”_ Louis almost said. Like a great genius, and his little boyfriend a real amateur who didn't grasp the terminology yet. It was odd for just a second. Harry seemed too dirty minded to make a mistake. But Louis dug in and got him off. He’d lick and suck, grinding his whole head between his cheeks and moaning quietly so Harry could feel it on his skin. And it really got him worked up, and that got Louis worked up. And Harry came barely minutes in, and Louis never sees any choice but to push himself over the edge once Harry's finished, just like they always do in porn. 

It did seem a little odd that Harry didn't ask to get his dick sucked after. He seemed satisfied with the misquote, and the wrong order that came after.

It didn't seem like much at the time. Until next time— that was 4 weeks later into next month. Dozens of more second base lovemaking sessions in the dark, in the bathroom, in their bedrooms at their mothers’ houses. But how selfish— Harry wanted to be the receiver all the time. And every time was an appearance of his favorite catchphrase. “Eat my pussy eat m-y pussy...” On his knees, back to the cushions, or sitting on Louis’s face to be real kinky— by the standards of a seventeen year old. Sometimes Louis never got to working on his cock. And that was a shame, he really fancied himself an excellent cocksucker. But it was Harry's hole that got his attention nearly every time. 

And maybe Louis was just a little fed up, or cheeky or meaning to tease in a usual tone. He always tried not to for his sensitive new love, obsessively trying to impress him in a perpetual state of courting. But he said it. Couldn’t be helped.

“Pussy?” Right in the middle of a nice long lick along his crack, the second Harry said it first.

And, “What?” Harry said.

“‘Eat my pussy.’” Louis quoted with a little chuckle. 

And boy, were Harry's cheeks red. He made a face. “I said that?” The funniest voice for the weakest lie. 

“Yeah.” It was the brush of a second thought that made him adjust his tone. He was in the process of easing Harry’s flustered state, but then Harry said,

“That's weird.” Made a face again with a nose scrunch. He wanted Louis to go along. At least, expecting it. But Louis just laughed quietly with a shrug, and got back to eating his meal. 

Harry never said it again. And he laid off his penchant for spreading his legs for some tongue against his hole and taint—because he liked it at the taint too. The fingers clenched tight into Louis's hair always pulled up for open mouthed kisses just under his balls. What an odd spot, Louis thought, whenever he did get to thinking during sex. It wasn't often. But every time he would have, it would’ve been a puzzle to solve. He did think about _that_ one time.

Time flew. 2012. ‘Let me kiss you’ and ‘tonight let’s get some’. And a Swift. And a Calder. 

It didn’t seem like much at the time.

The year didn’t end on a sour note with the first lady-lip kiss on New Year’s Eve. They had weeks to let that sink beforehand. It was the first hour into 2013 that brought down the rainfall of their first real, awful argument. Just two lovebirds chirping away tiny with a peep in comparison with the heavyweight torment of today. 

Louis just hated that he smelled woman’s perfume on Harry when he got to bed. Sweet, like chocolate and vanilla. He’ll never forget the smell.

“It’s not hers!”

That’s what made it worse. Because there had to be a "Who?" Louis insisted. And Harry didn’t say. 

Oh, he was getting so famous. And “N-No one…!” came with a stutter and a pause long enough to make it the wrong answer.

Louis really thought that he...

And Harry got hysterical. The ship, the compass, the swallows— he went on, again and again in a blubber because he was just such a _baby_ , and he didn’t wanna get _dumped_. Young love. 

It stood trial, surely. Naturally— the ink would stand the test of time. They made up proper by the 3rd of the month. And they got new tattoos just weeks later, because they felt _that_ bad.

And it would never be that stupid and easy again.

“Do you like it?”

That was mid 2013.

Harry was whispering. Louis was rubbing his temples before his first sleep on a real mattress in four months. When a certain curly-haired lad was climbing over him all sexy he wasn’t paying much attention. ‘Like what?,’ he didn’t say. Didn’t look when Harry showed off. Jet-lagged, awful, not sound of mind from stress and the growing space between him and his boyfriend— _boyfriend_ . _His_ boyfriend.

Harry seemed okay. Pussy jokes and party-going. Louis just wished he said, “It’s just acting,” even once like he really wanted to hear. But Harry got to teasing like Louis was a real jealous grouch, a silly fellow. And Louis didn’t tolerate it for long.

“Oh, so you like being passed around like a party favor as long as you get some fucking attention, some pictures, yeah. Yeah, I think I’ve got a spare quid here, mate, you reckon that’s enough for me to buy your time? A night out? Five minutes, maybe? A picture? Do you think I could get a fucking _discount_ as your _boyfriend_? Eh?”

“ _You_ sound upset.”

“Oh _fuck off!_ ”

“And you’re being a lot right now.”

“I would hope I am a lot you little fucking prick I’m not one of your little posh fucking Primrose pals! Oh, no, I bet those actually do get a good fuck every now and then. If the price is right, yeah? For the good of the band, you fucking saint! I bet you’d be balls-deep in every piece of pussy that threw themselves at you if it got your pretty little face in every fucking _paper_ in the whole _fucking_ **_world_**!”

That wasn’t even the meanest thing he ever wanted to say. But it was the only time the lid blew off. 

Harry didn’t cry like January 1, 2012.

It was on that first night on a mattress in four months that the harvest from that crop came to fruition. Took a little while to grow. Louis didn’t even realize he planted a seed. 

Didn’t cross his mind at all on that bed when Harry was pulling open his hotel bathrobe and revealing a black lingerie set clinging skimpy on him, barely covering his balls. Louis thought it was ridiculous. Harry must have been joking. 

“I saw it on one of those, um… pictures, that fans make. You know, like…imagine you wearing this while meeting Harry Styles in his hotel room. It had a picture of a Victoria’s Secret model."

Yeah, a joke, Louis thought.

"I think I've fucked her, supposedly. I don’t know. It was… like… you imagine you’re her, and that you look like her. And you come into my room, and take your clothes off, and you’re wearing this. On this… gorgeous supermodel body with nice tits. And I’m just so turned on and I… I fuck her.”

Harry wasn’t laughing. 

Louis just looked at him lazy, head on the pillow, not really looking at the lacy ensemble. “You wear it better.” What Harry wanted to hear, he figured, with what weak memory he had of what Harry was even on about. He was just mumbling and fiddling with him, straddling his hips and playing with Louis’s hair. And well, that was nice. Louis remembers that was nice.

“You haven’t seen her.”

“I don’t have to. I don’t want to.”

Harry’s finger danced in the empty space of the push-up bra with his gaze cast down. “I’m prettier than the other girls, aren’t I?”

It didn’t seem like much at the time. That’s not a thesis that develops for consideration at 3:01am before a morning of press and interviews. And Harry’s question felt stupid. How annoying, Louis thought; Harry acting like he fancied girls at all. “You’re prettier than all of them. You don’t belong to any of them. You belong with me.”

“To you. I belong to you.”

Louis rubbed his eyes.

“Tell me I’m your girl.”

Of course he would indulge him anyway. “You’re my girl. It’s never gonna be another one. You belong to me.” 

All it needed was whipped cream and a cherry on top, words so sugary sweet. Words— all it was. Sounds in a sentence. Something to make Harry go limp in Louis’s arms with a dreamy sigh and a kiss to his lips. Many more. And then a plea. “I love you...” Kiss kiss. “Don’t leave me...” Kiss kiss kisskisskisskisskiss. “I’m sorry...”

What for? He’s so weird.

They got to fucking, naturally. Louis on top again—he didn't care for a turn to receive after eight minutes with bloodshot eyes and grey bags. Harry was riding him anyway. And it felt nice. Louis squeezed at the empty fabric of that B-cup bra the whole time, feeling stupid, knowing by the way Harry squeezed his wrist that he _loved_ it. Loved it, loved it. 

It didn't seem like much at the time. Louis just knew he wasn’t into it as much as he let Harry think. The possessiveness—he quite liked that. The establishment of deep commitment and that air of jealousy. Making love. But the lingerie was weird. And he didn’t think it looked so good. Sleep came. And he thought it wouldn’t matter.

Then Harry kept wearing it. There was something stirring beneath the surface that initially slipped Louis’s better judgement, and he was passive enough for the wet cement to turn hard. Because he was the great object of Harry’s affection at last for the later half of 2013—oh good. Like they were making up for the first half. Only, this time wrapped in lace. The first few times and then a few more. Knickers, _knickers_ — knickers every time.

Oh dear. A relentless incorporation of lingerie and bottoming time and time again— just his luck, said the sarcasm. Sticky, inconvenient afflictions. It was weird and risky and Louis got exhausted soon enough. But he didn’t dare make mention of his growing exasperation with the short end of the stick. Harry was quite needy and insecure. And that didn’t make publicity dates with a woman in the public eye any easier for Louis, knowing it would hang above his head like blame every time Harry wanted him to call him ‘his girl’ in bed. 

At least, that’s what Louis thought it was only about. Weird celebrity coping. 

They were getting so much money. Harry was this ace of spades in the deck of cards, flashing from a dealt hand, winning gambles at every match in the tournament to success. Sometimes it felt like he wanted Louis to wipe off that 3rd party touch. Every new girlfriend and hookup story made him weird. Just a little. Just enough. But still. Lingerie it was, anyway. Weeks and then months, everyone going by wasted in flashes. No complaints because

it didn’t seem like much at the time. Round 3—they had work to do. Other things took up space in their minds.

And then in no time it was round 4 with no break. 2014.

And things changed in the span of all those days.

Because nothing else did.

They got so many new matching tattoos. Fucked a lot. Cooked up a faux marriage proposal between whispers on the tour bus bunk bed behind a closed curtain one night. Bumpy highway made the whole bus rattle, and no one heard their little cries of hurrah’s and laments for

circumstances

that made everything such a big, awful secret.

_‘Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong?’_

It was odd, so odd to watch bracelets turn to shackles in a trick. Nothing in the contracts signed to favor their desire to share their love the way everyone else could. 

But they couldn’t be so selfish, said every level at the corporate hierarchy. There was a band. And a lot of money. And a girl named Reifler, Leopold, Fowler, Jenner, Sampaio. Calder was still around. The stadium tour came so soon after the arena one.

Two circus bears pacing the perimeter of the cage, chewing on the same slabs of supermarket pork with prods and pokes to open wounds to make them dance. At least they got a few sportscars they couldn’t drive. Mansions sitting empty like dollhouses. Harry wanted them to fuck in their house so bad. Just once.

Louis didn’t fake complacency anymore. No space for nitpick and criticism. Times fell into desperation like the great depression and they kept sinking hopeless. Had to keep things good, Louis thought. Modus operandi. Make wine out of water, part the sea, find reasons to make themselves laugh. Everything felt like a miracle. Louis hyped and hyped and hyped their position into the highest state of reassurance. Suddenly he was Harry’s #1 superfan. Because Harry, 

he was starting to seem a little sad. Something.

It started when he stopped with the knickers. And the parties, and the posses. Louis wishes he was paying attention. Because, _Oh, Harry’s settling down_ , he thought. Pleased. A sense of equilibrium had fallen over their dynamic and he even felt nostalgic at Harry’s ease. Late summer of 2014 and the weathered paint had chipped away to show an old portrait still preserved under the enamel. A month, maybe. 

And then it just kept wasting away. 

Maintenance on a mural became damage control for a sinking sand castle too close to the shore. 

It hasn’t stopped feeling like that since. 

Where We Are came and went fast, hectic, messy, a train wiggling in its tracks—but those were the last nights Louis went to sleep without a real worry. Because it was the last time Harry was whiny and open and needy and monologuing his burdens in sexual metaphors and weird crossdressing roleplay. They switched, they fucked, they made love then, all over again. 

But it was like crop circles all over the carpet. Where’s the furniture? Louis wanted to ask,

_Where’d you put everything that’s wrong with you?_

2015\. What he would’ve given for Harry to make him a request. Tell him outright what it is he wanted to hear again, just once. He would pay attention. But by then Louis had become oblivious. Harry read so many books. Slept less. Took up yoga, went on diets, got all ‘zen’ with his long hippie hair. It seemed on brand. Wasn’t much to say. But beneath his emotional anonymity was a void, pitch black, lights out—no one home, go away. Because Harry was fine, he said. And he was fucking him again— wasn’t that great? Back to their most harmless beginnings in a great irony. Ignorance. But without the innocence to keep minds at ease and suspicions at bay. Louis was always so suspicious.

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty- four. Four years of the same pile of wet sand stacked over and over like a patty, because the tide washed over it and broke it down under five inches of water without enough time in between to keep it dry. The tides just keep getting higher. Their planet was getting so hot.

There was a mound on that metaphorical beachside, still, anyway. Louis never stopped trying to cast some illusion of normalcy for Harry, like nothing had changed. Because he just couldn’t stand the memory of that big sand palace full of seashells that used to be there. And he couldn't stand Harry’s willingness to leave an empty spot should Louis ever abandon his duty as hopeless architect to another’s lost sense of…

something. 

Because he didn’t like remembering how the sand castle started as a metaphor for Harry— the person, the happy person, his whole stupid boy— and not just a part of him. The idea of him being swallowed by the tide forever was too horrible of a suggestion for his attention to even scrape before he felt the devastation of losing him. He told himself he was just building up a piece of him, helping out with the structure of a mere _part_ of him. It was nothing morbid.

It was nothing much.

And then his mother died. There was that. 

Louis likes to think he contained the fallout of his nuclear explosion so that the tragedy only destroyed him and no one else. Because he wanted a world to come back to. He wasn’t gonna come back weaker. 

It was the same world, sure enough. For better and for worse. But maybe something spilled over anyway, his touch leaving a mark. Can’t clean up the leaks you don’t want to see. Or maybe, someone else cleaned them up. “I’m alright.” He really, really wasn’t. For the first time.

And he hasn’t really been since. 

He kept on making castles in the sand anyway. 

Because he didn’t like those times Harry stayed in bed instead of working out. Or didn’t talk. Or didn’t eat. Or was sitting in the same chair Louis kissed him goodbye from at 7am, home at 10pm, seeing him still there with all the lights off. What could he do? Had to cheer him up—that’s all. All he could do. All he _had_ to do. Because nothing could get that bad under Louis Tomlinson’s watch— son of a midwife, first born on Christmas Eve. Couldn't be anything but merry.

Maybe there was a bias. Downplay and block the memory of having to bathe Harry because he didn’t want to move out of bed. Of counting his sleeping pills to make sure he didn't take too many to ever wake up again. Of having to hold his wrists to keep him from tearing his scalp in a panic attack. Harry washed away and Louis stacked him up again. Knees sinking in the wet beachside, mud slipping between his fingers where he dug them into the ground and tried desperately to build up from zero.

"He doesn't need to see anyone. He's told me he doesn't want to, you don't— Right, nothing's wrong with him. Alright? He's got me. He tells me everything so I know what he needs, he tells me. N— ...You know what, you got no fucking business. You don't fucking know him so mind your fucking business, yeah? Fuck off— No, _fuck off_! **_Fuck_** **_off_** _!!_ "

Louis was just a man slaving on his knees. A doormat if Harry ever got to walking. And he wished he would. He was more of a doorman. And Harry,

he was just very quiet. 

It didn’t seem like much at the time. 

Because it was 2017. And there wasn’t a band anymore. There wasn’t a cage anymore, just like they promised.

They were just separated. Two brown bears, two different circuses miles apart. Oh, it’s alright, they rationalized. Harry had a spotlight and a _movie_ . He lost twelve pounds and sweat cold in his sleep; anxiety medication, shot voice every once in a while because he _swore_ he wasn’t a good singer, he _swore_ he couldn’t finish the tour.

But by God, there was a _tour_. Another one booked and ready to go. Sold out. Movie star, yellow brick road to a new adventure.

And then his stepdad died.

Louis was sure he’d hear a tsunami’s siren any minute. And Harry would just wash away for sure, no shore to start again. Louis couldn’t get a thing done with the check-ups across the world, the runaround from his own new schedule. Harry needed him, needed a reminder that fate was casting a good light on him. And he needed that like an insulin shot. Beaming smiles and giggles for a few hours before coming apart like he was never together. ‘I’m okay,’ meant, ‘I’m okay right now.’ He never was for long. 

And Louis just couldn’t get anything right. He swore. Taking a private jet across the world just to watch a romcom with him and stop an anxiety attack. Knowing it wasn't enough but refusing to believe Harry needed real help. Refusing to believe he wasn’t enough to fix it.

But hey, Harry was adjusting. He promised. The too-big shoes were fitting and the spotlight dimmed just enough to make the squint of his eyes go away. He was _performing_ . He was a _musician_. 

And it seemed like the best thing at the time. 

Harry really had him fooled. And was he clever. The staff just outside the hotel room door made for a good alibi to his first sign of decay.

They had to hush backstage— that’s all, Harry said. Had to hide and make no sound. So they surrendered their voices in dressing rooms and toilets. And under that context, the vow seemed logical. The silence filled their space and swelled tall and wide. And it drifted right into Harry’s corner. But it made sense. Coming close with a snuggle, a hug. 

“I think they left. Th-they left.”

And finally a latch. 

“Come on baby, let me hear you.”

And it drained. 

Maybe July 2018. Tour was over. There wasn’t an excuse. And it hit Louis like a brick to his stupid face. Something was wrong, starting up again like a raw throat before the cold.

He couldn’t get any noise out of Harry during sex. Except once, when he’d ask for the third or fourth time, 

“That feel good, baby?” 

“Mm…” Harry’s only sound.

“Yeah?” 

August, September, October. It felt like madness. Another year, another bizarro misfortune. Why this? he would ask. Why did it have to be this? What did it mean? What did he do wrong? Why was there still _something_ wrong? What did he have to do? Louis never had the patience for solving bad riddles with impossible clues. Harry used to be the noisiest fellow on the pillowcase and now he could only fuck a gasp out of him with the hardest thrusts inside him.

And then finally, 

the whip that broke this camel's back:

2018's Thanksgiving sex before bed, and Harry couldn't get hard for the first time ever in thei relationship. But that was funny in the moment. Louis had to ask with his usual teasing, expecting the frustrated whining of a new prescription's side effect, his only plausible guess. Something, anything benign.

But Harry sort of wilted. And the second Louis reached out to try his hand at bringing the shriveled limb to life, Harry closed his legs in a sharp jolt.

"...Sorry."

Louis could handle the bruised ego of a lovemaker when Harry got a little less slutty, less cheeky, taking longer to get hard because he was barely even touching the thing. Because he was only muted in the bedroom. But when his cock ceased life altogether without an explanation Louis felt like he was going to lose his mind. Riddles have always existed to boil his blood pressure into high, but it wasn’t the mystery of these circumstances that had him ripping out his greying hair. 

He just could not, for the life of him, figure out a way to bring it up as a matter of discussion without making Harry go _loud_ , loud, loud in the most awful cover-up. And maybe mangle his cock with a pill on top just to please Louis. So obviously unhappy with the underlying issue still swimming beneath his latest burden, a new emotional chore for the sake of someone else. And then Louis _really_ couldn’t bring _that_ up. 

Harry just gets upset. And then he might cry.

(Louis really doesn’t like it when he cries.)

He didn’t get desperate for a solution until December 13, 2018. Nearly a month that Harry hadn't cum, and he made plans.

“Japan? Why Japan?”

“Why not?”

“That’s on the other side of the world, innit.”

“Yeah! It's really cool.”

“...Am I invited?”

“Well, yeah, it… It’s more like, how we usually do it.” Harry goes alone, Louis drops in. 

In other words, ‘no’. And Louis knew, really, it wasn’t anything like how they usually did it. Not at all.

It felt like the end of his rope. So he thought a venture into the beginning might do some good. 

It was the brainstorm of the century. Sometimes Louis didn’t sleep because of it. Digging through dressers, through drawers, notebooks, fanmade timelines spanning years because God knows he could barely remember what happened last month. There had to be something to plug the leak, kill the cold, fix the problem.

July 2013— he was decided on the date for the time machine. It was just the last time he remembered Harry being so chatty.

“Do you like it?”

Victoria’s Secret is tacky and he knew that much. So he went with Agent Provocateur in some pricey, slutty pink with complementary pasties Harry opted out of.

Lingerie— _lingerie_. Eureka. With a wrapped up box, Louis thought he’d finally done it. Throwback to lacy knickers, a see-through bra, and all the emotional resolution that once came with it. Better days. That would get Harry wild and riled and ready to pounce like the glory days guaranteed. And when Harry flashed a smile and a squeal, Louis really got his optimism buzzing sky high. They had to get kinky now. Maddening love sessions with rocked hips and novella dialogue in passion and romance. Oh, Louis thought he’d hit it big.

Harry put it on. And he debuted it with a walk out the bathroom and towards the bed. Nothing sexy about the gait, but he was so pleased. He’s a broad shouldered noodle and the knickers, just like last time, barely wrapped over his cock and balls. Louis thought for a moment he might take him as a fool like before. But his eyes were heart-shaped and he grinned cross-legged on his side of the bed, waiting for his smiling boy to do his thing. His very sexy thing, feel himself, get hard and cum at last. Finally get to talking, and telling him anything at all.

Harry turned off the bedside lamp light. 

And he lifted the duvet like a pocket. 

And slipped under, pulling Louis to join him under for a cuddle at his side. 

That was all.

And Louis, he complied. In the dark, inside the humming of their bedroom heater that swallowed him, inside the space that didn’t exist between them. He just lied there and made pretend that what he intended on happening really did happen. His ego, boisterous, wailing in agony.

It got the best of him. His tongue, to be exact.

“W… Hey.” Thankful the dark hid his expression of turmoil, all those wrinkles. And he gave Harry a little nudge.

“Hm?”

The whispers were deafening. Like every breath and rustle of the sheets rang on maximum volume with a hum through TV speakers. Louis could’ve heard a fly’s wings flapping, he thought. Really did. “Hey, do you like it?” 

“Yeah.”

Louis had to turn over and face Harry. It was dark but not impossible. Harry was determined to look serene with his cheek on the pillow. Louis felt determined to solve his riddle.

“I like you in it. You look amazing,” he promised.

And he remembers Harry almost looked at him like he didn’t believe him. But he smiled, stayed meek in his blush and flattery. Louis saw the sheets pulled up under Harry’s armpits and under his chest and he wanted to scream.

“Can I see? Turn on the light.”

Bedside lamp went on.

“Let me see you, baby.”

"For what?”

And Louis had to chuckle. “You serious?” 

Louis turned on the lamp from his side. And Harry was there under sunset yellow, lying on the bed, pulling down the sheets to appease Louis. Pretty panties— what was the problem? Suddenly Louis fancied him an angel to prove his utmost support. Unchallenged hubby. So what was wrong? Think, think. And while Louis was desperately brainstorming possible fault with the portrait, Harry said,

“It’s weird, innit.”

And how could he?

Why did he? 

It took Louis aback. “No, of course not.” Of course not. Of course not. Louis’s voice could’ve quaked and stuttered under the turbulence of his heartbeat. The tremble. The sound. “You think you look weird?” Louis hated that. He moved awfully close up against him and started touching him. His collarbones, his cheek, his waist. He looked, because he knew it would make a point. “You look amazing. And so, so sexy. So lovely.” What else? he thought. Had to say more. So he just touched him in the meantime, responding to him, leaning in for nuzzles as he placed his hand on his waist.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to."

Louis pulled back. And Harry just told him, sugarcane sweet,

"Like, sex.” A little chuckle.

It was awful. Because Louis had to freeze his face so nothing would show. Pause, stop. Can’t rewind. It was scary going on. “I want to. We can, if you wanna. Do you want to, baby? You look fucking gorgeous." Cracks a little smile. "Fucking sexy."

And it was that thing Harry always did, when his self esteem cowared too far back to give him shade from the glare of confrontation. “Don't force it.”

And Louis thought, no. 

No, he doesn’t talk to him like that. With curled up limbs and forced pliancy, expecting rejection. Louis pushed past thought and just got to saying, 

“Oh fuck that— come here. C’mere, on me lap. Please?”

On his lap he climbed. He said please. But if Harry really wanted to, Louis wasn’t sure.

And that was horror. There was a terrifying unfamiliarity. Wasn’t Harry. Lingerie was stupid, lingerie was a daily a few years ago, and Harry was there shrunken within his skin and without eye contact. A mollusk with no shell. Why? How?

“Why’d you think I got it if I didn’t wanna see you in it?”

Harry’s shoulders went up once, slow. Picked at his big thighs from the spot where they straddled Louis’s hips. Louis took his hands in his, as best as he could in the awkward angle. But Harry remained unmoved in quiet serenity. Apologetic. “I know you just feel bad.”

He couldn’t say that. “No. I love you,” Louis said. His brow was tense, his eyes vibrant under dim bedtime’s light. They could’ve burned through Harry’s gaze. And he paused to let the spices simmer in the sauce and take up the taste. Wanted it strong and deep, wanted to make a point. Didn’t look away from his face, not once. “I love seeing you happy. I wanna make you happy.” _Believe me, take that in_ , he thought. P.S. “It’s all I ever want.” P.S.S. “That—That’s all I’m ever gonna want.” 

Harry just smiled at the sheets, the dark blue carpet of their bedroom. Please, Louis wanted to beg. Beg Harry not to be this person. He didn’t like this person. He wanted his baby.

“Do you like it?”

Harry looked at him for the first time. And something seemed to swirl. “Yes,” he said. 

Louis moved his hands to Harry’s waist, touched his skin with his thumbs. “Then don’t hide it.” And then slipped his hands up on his back. “I love it.” Down, slow.

And all Harry did was look at him. In the eye only sometimes. Whirlpool gaze, blinking, breathing soft enough to mask the irregular pace. It was his own world he was in and Louis could tell. And boy, was he pretty. Green eyes far apart, strong pointy nose, pink lips. Louis feared for a moment too long,

_Is he still my boy?_

And it must’ve been the most absurd thought, a crisis over a bra and mixed signals. But Louis couldn’t stand not knowing everything about his other half anymore.

_Tell me tell me tell me tell me._

“Talk to me, baby.”

He didn’t. 

But he did drop his weight forward. And kissed him, arms around him and hands to his jaw. Kissed him so nice, so warm, so limp on top of him. Suddenly he weighed a ton. And Louis remembers how good that felt. Because he hadn’t felt that in a long time.

_Yeah, he’s still my boy._

He flipped them over and turned off the lights. And they had sex. 

It was like the combination had finally made it in the lock, and the latch to the safe opened wide for a million gazillion dollars. Louis felt like the most accomplished hero on a quest ever. 

Because Harry sounded like a pornstar that night. 

He couldn’t shut up. Moans and sexy sounds, writhing, telling Louis how good he felt without even being asked. The bed squeaked and Harry with it. Because he was high pitched and whiny the way girls are. And that just delighted Louis. Because he felt like the best fuck on the planet for it. The dick had him sounding like that— of course. No question. What else would it be?

Harry didn't get hard. But he shuttered beneath him through the wave of… something.

And Louis decided that was good enough. 

Maybe it was medical, a side effect, a biological fluke. It didn't matter anymore. Because Harry was _into_ this and he _begged_ Louis to finish inside him. So, so sexy. Louis hadn’t heard that in months. And he was so exhausted. Sweaty. So he thought, stupidly,

_Fixed it._

The sand castle was looking pretty good. And for some reason, at that moment, the beachside just got a little bigger. A powerful omen of good fortune after such a long-standing problem seemed to finally vanish. After all,

it was fireworks and bottles popping plenty. Louis found the solution. Louis saved the day. The century-long battle with a vow of silence just needed a little lingerie to vanquish to oblivion. Wasn’t that funny? Wasn’t it silly? Harry was

so silly.

With his mousy whimpers and his pink skimpy lingerie that had him on strike. The things Louis put up with. Their absurd affairs. Louis thought Harry was too embarrassed to buy lingerie himself anymore. Overreacting because he’s sensitive and odd. Too worried about being caught. Too insecure.

He wasn’t insecure. 

December 28, 2018. That was the send-off fuck for the Tokyo trip. Louis was feeling smug. King of the world.

And he knew about as much about what was going on as a fish knew what rainfall was from below the surface. He sure looked, though. Weird ripples— what about it? It seemed he had it all figured out.

It didn’t seem like much at the time. 

But it was everything.

Louis could’ve figured it out right then if he wanted to. If his great, genius, Einstein brain the size of Jupiter wasn’t too proud to grab a clue, then the next few months would have never panned out the way they did. With the fear of the ignorant. The fear of the proud. If he had just breached the surface of what he knew, and looked up at the hidden world that could've always met his eyes.

Nothing seems like much when you don’t see much. Lingerie is just sexy, and an indefinite stay in Japan is just an eagerness to see temples and eat tempura. 

Happy new year was five months past. Eighteen was spilled milk. Twenty-six paints a blue-pink picture. Twenty-nineteen went too fast. Harry was a birthday boy this time a year ago. 

He was a boy a year ago.


	2. 2019

“That’s, um… That’s Kurobuta, it's a black hog— from Japan. It's different pork. It tastes, um… I don't know! A bit different. It's great, I got you stir-fry. That's gyoza, chicken dumplings. Another classic. Um… and that’s takoyaki— that’s the one you’re eating, which is octopus, I think. It’s like, a dumpling? It's deep fried. It’s not bad. It’s just… Anyway, I thought you might like it.”

“Darling.”

“Yes.”

“This is completely revolting.”

They laugh together. The squeaking of a plastic lid fills their hotel room as Harry closes a little box of takoyaki, placing it back with a row of nine more containers organized on the duvet, each missing a little morsel. The room smells lovely with rich boy cologne and Japanese takeaway steam filling the air. It’s a great set-up. Perched on their bed, cross-legged and facing each other in traveler’s loungewear. 

Japan is lovely. They're miles away from the metro and any tourist hotspots in Tottori's Yonago city, cozy in a micro apartment just 30 square meters in size. Harry's connections knocked it out of the park when he said he wanted some place small. It's a 1968 apartment complex that's nearly empty, home to dozens of single-room homes. It's all there, steps away. The bathroom next to the washer, the washer next to kitchen sink, the kitchen sink next to the refrigerator, the refrigerator next to the bed. Everything is clean and compact, like the room is a single kitchen appliance gone beige with gentle use. It’s enough to trigger claustrophobia in the most free-spirited kin. But for two disgustingly attached lovebirds fond of cramped places to nest, the accommodation meets their requirements quite nicely. 

Louis, however, has been fussy regarding Harry’s idea of a good time.

“Sorry, no. Nuh-uh.” Fifth time said.

“We’ll find something you like, babe,” Harry assures him as he clicks the chopstick tips together in his hand, deciding on the next dish from the selection displayed to his right on the bed.

“I feel like the Grinch at the Holiday Cheermeister.” Louis reaches over a little table at the bedside for a bottle of water to down his fifth sample of local Japanese food. “Will this be extending the whole week I’m here? You can’t actually feed me every food in the country until I like something.” 

“You know what it is? I’ve spoiled you,” Harry reasons, pinching Louis’s nose with the chopsticks. “If it’s not mac n cheese and Yorkshire tea and, and cheese and baked beef on a pan then… you know, you’re impossible. You never like local food from any place. You’re a child.”

Louis cocks his head and takes his look around the room, giving the notion some thought. “I’m a man who knows what he likes.” Intolerance, he suddenly thinks. And that’s no good. So he argues, “They gave me this one thing in the airport yesterday— I quite liked it! Little thin sticks, like cookies. I was eating it when you picked me up. What was it?”

“Pocky?”

“Yeah.”

Harry snorts. “Sweets! Fucking junk food, candy— _candy_ does not count. They sell Pocky at fucking Tesco— _This_ is authentic and I want you to try it.” He’s got a new container of carry-out in his hands, popping off the lid while Louis eyes it suspiciously. Botchan dango, little skewers.

And Harry seems to take notice. He gives him a meek look, fluttering by, barely seen. He runs his hand back through his overgrown curls, only for them to fall forward again.

“I just want you to like something different.”

Louis isn’t paying attention. Just makes a little noise, high with a whine.

“You know, get used to new things.”

  
  
  


It’s a lunch date twenty minutes later, a nice walk from their apartment into the small town.

Louis’s got the 12-inch plastic menu spread on the table. Cramped place. 'West Town Circuit's America Cuisine'— a tiny restaurant decorated with red and orange furniture, quiet with occasional foreign tongue and a loud, sizzling kitchen a few feet away. Louis is swimming in his black hoodie, coat on his lap, while Harry goes stealth in a dingy polyester coat of his own and his newspaper cap.

“'Old-fashioned 100% beef all-America burger'. All-America! How bout that.” The only English words on the menu. Harry ordered just to show off his Japanese skills and get Louis impressed. The trivia has been a delight.

“They fancy America here, much more than England,” Harry tells him with arms folded on the table, coat sleeves bunched at his elbows. “They like Western things. So that’s most of the non-Japanese food they have. But they do it like, better than America. Waffles, pancakes, burgers, chips, milkshakes— you ordered a milkshake!”

“I did!” In the same cheery tone, still looking at the menu. “And I’m not sharing.”

Harry rolls his eyes. "I’m the one who said I didn’t want any. I don’t care that you’d rather not _share_.”

“Your idea of sharing is just stealing the food right off me plate.”

“ _Anyway_ , American food here is like the classic diner food, but on steroids. Ace!” He flashes a smile. “You’re gonna love it, babe.”

“I quite like the sound of that!” Louis tells the desserts section. Then he slaps the menu down and confides in Harry. “What’s British food on steroids? A mountain of beans and toast, do you reck?”

“Fish and chips!” Obviously. “Classic!”

“Fish is big here, innit. I mean, that’s a big industry here. Oh shit, we have to get some British food, love, we absolutely have to find a place.” Maybe he’s forcing the conversation, but the train of thought chugs on as he leans his back on his chair and lets his vision zone out peripheral. “Can you imagine if they do it better here?” Facing the window, gazing at the somewhat suburban winter street. Crosswalks, bicycle riders on the occasion. “Literally on the other side of the planet.” One lady cruises by. “I’d like to see that. That would really surprise me.” 

And she falls. 

Louis snorts. “Babe.” She’s rolling on the snowy ground with a wince, clutching her elbow. And there he is, silent from the outside world, a skinny little bearded white man laughing at her from inside a burger restaurant across the street, going, “Babe!”

Babe is busy. Louis turns his head to face Harry, sitting forward in his chair all proper and making a fuss. Fumbling with the pockets of his coat makes the polyester-blend bunch as the fabric rubs together. Brow furrowed, in search of something. “What did you order?” he asks, placing his phone on the table, his apartment keys—anything he finds.

“A burger. I think it had mushrooms.” Louis grabs the menu. “Oh Jesus, I can’t read this. Um, this picture. With chips and the strawberry shake.” He flips the booklet to face Harry and taps over a fat, glorious burger sitting on the page. “Um… no mushrooms, and you said no pickles. At least, you told _me_ you said so...” 

Harry’s got his head down as he pats around his trousers. 

“What are you doing?”

The coat comes open with a _‘zzzzzzip!_ ' and a good pull down. Harry takes it off from one arm only and stands up from his chair. The coat dangles from his right shoulder, letting half his casualwear take center stage. The white t-shirt is tucked nicely into his beige slacks, but he doesn’t look quite put together. Tattoos on display make him interesting, his solid build looking nice. Chest large, bicep twitching.

“God you’re fit, babe.” That goes unnoticed by Harry as he continues his diligent search. Louis blinks, mocking, “ _‘Oh, thank you, Louis.’_ ”

Harry’s got it after a reach into his back pocket— his brown leather wallet appears in his hands. “I’m checking to see if I brought enough money.” He flips it open and his fingers get to crawling over the bills.

“Oh no, I hope we can afford this place on our salary.”

“Ha- _ha!_ ” Harry announces, “I brought the right wallet.” He’s very pleased and takes a seat. “Wanna see how the money is?” His left arm outstretched, holding out a Japanese yen.

And a strap slips down from his shoulder, under his shirt sleeve. Light beige elastic. Resting. 

Just above the bend of his arm, right over the heart tattoo. 

“What’s that?”

For an American burger restaurant, it doesn't smell as much like beef as it could. Louis must’ve been thinking about that or some other innocuous, minor detail to think nothing of the way Harry hurried to hide his arm under his jacket again.

“Oh, that— that's part of the shirt. It’s an undershirt.”

_Zip!_

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

There’s only four tables total in 'West Town Circuit's America Cuisine'. It’s empty on January 4th at 12:21pm, except for a man and his fussy eight year old receiving their order of nuggets, and two white men sitting across from each other in silence. The bearded one with both elbows on the table, the one with the hat leaning back with his arms tucked at his side and his expression blurred under rapid concern.

"いただきます!"

"いただきます!"

And then their food arrives. 

Louis doesn’t know how to tell Harry there are pickles in his burger. That sends him into a moment of longful staring so he has an excuse to not open up the burger and insult Harry’s ability to communicate more than 5 basic Japanese phrases. But that’s okay, Harry is just as eager to avoid conversation, so he doesn’t comment on Louis’s untouched meal. And to Louis, he is as beautiful a boy as ever as he porks down a sloppy, triple patty bacon cheeseburger—so staring suits him just fine. Too bad the lady that fell already got up and left. That would’ve made a good icebreaker.

One topic occurs to him. “When are you gonna paint me nails?” Because he noticed how beef grease was running down Harry’s.

Harry lifts his gaze and seems flustered at sharing eye contact with Louis, his bite coming to a pause until he looks away again, this time staring at his nails. Licks the grease. Shimmery pink and bright blue teal took turns coloring the all ten fingers. Louis gave him his compliments yesterday on the taxi ride to the apartment. 

“I don’t know. The apartment, I suppose,” Harry tells him muffled with his cheeks bulging full. And he dips his head to suck on Louis’s untouched strawberry milkshake.

Louis can tell he’s nervous. So he dismisses his disgust at the straw that made contact with the chewed up food collected in Harry’s mouth. He plays along. “Mm.” Eats away at his golden, juicy chips. “I was thinking black. What do you think?”

“Black is boring.”

He makes a face. “You paint them black!”

Yes, “Black is boring.”

“Well fine, um…” Purses his lips, shrugs, wiggles his head around. “Blue.”

“I’ll take you shopping.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let me pick! I’ll uh...” Louis watches stunned as Harry grabs his milkshake and sucks the straw again, this time placing it on his side once and for all. “I…” His eyes look so beady, suddenly. He stares longer than he could get away with if Harry were paying attention. “I’ll pick from the, uh, selection,” he says quietly. “The display.”

“They have really cute colors here. I’ve bought, like… ten.”

“Why don’t we just pick from that?”

It was obvious enough to Harry, opening his half-eaten burger and pouring more ketchup between the layers. “Because they’re mine.”

And Louis just nods. Looks out the window, wishing someone else would fall off their bike to the tune of whatever classic rock playlist the restaurant owner has on shuffle. Doesn’t realize Harry’s got that lazer beam gaze pointing at him, rich in thought. Looks at the burger. Then looks back at his own burger for an obscene bite.

“They put pickles in your burger, didn’t they?”

“They did, love.”

Harry doesn’t tell him that he ordered it on request. “Why don’t you just eat them?” said while shoving chips into an already full mouth. "They might taste good y… you might like them."

“It’s disgusting.” And though he’s lighthearted about it, Louis’s got a bit of a sharp edge when he says, “You keep trying to get me into shit you know I don’t like. What's with that?”

Harry goes on stuffing his mouth.

"I like sticking to the shit I know, fucking sue me." Louis's mumbling, but without much remorse. Shrugging, "I don't like turning me life upside down every five minutes the way you do. Alright? You trying to change me, now?"

And Harry must answer quickly. "No," he says, swallowing his food. Meek. "No, I love you."

"If you got a problem with the way I am after 9 years, you know, too fucking bad. You're not changing me mind."

"Do you love me?"

And Louis just scoffs. "I tell you I don't change me mind about nothing and you ask me if I still love you."

Maybe he's upset. Maybe Harry is. But they laugh a little between each other anyway, so it's easy to play pretend.

  
  
  


“Oh, these are all sparkly, aren’t they? Actually it’s more of a shimmer. I quite like the shimmery. Yours are shimmery! I’m getting shimmery. What color shall I get?”

“I don’t know. Pick whatever, we’re gonna miss the train.”

Louis brings his attention back to the nail polish display. Sixteen rows, dozens upon dozens of colors. Kobayashi Pharmacy is deceivingly rich in varied merchandise. He’s passed aisles packed with goodies and toys and stationary he never imagined could be seen as everyday items. Glorious— Boots Pharmacy pales miserably in comparison. 

"Wait until I take you to Daiso."

The nail polish display has Louis overwhelmed. He won’t stop fiddling with the bottles like the novice he is. “I like this one.” He pokes a burgundy red color before dragging his finger over five more shades until he reaches pink. And then back. “Shall I mix and match? How are yours?”

Harry pulls his hand from his coat pocket and places it in Louis’s line of vision. “It’s two.” Wiggling his fingers.

“I’m getting two. Do mine like yours.” The time he’s taking up is starting to take its toll, his knees aching from the squat. So in haste, he decides, “I like these two.” Grabs the first then the second little bottle of nail polish and hands it to Harry, who’s all too pleased to play comedic genius.

“Oh, candy cane!” Matte white and shimmery red.

Louis gets offended. “It’s not candy cane! That’s uh, that’s…” Candy cane— can’t be unseen now.

When they get to the cash register, Harry seems to have enchanted the old woman scanning their many snacks, knick-knacks, and beauty products with his butchered Japanese. 

"あなたのディンプルはとてもかわいいです！" she giggles.

"ありがとう！Um...かわいい！"

"She flirting with you?"

Harry grins. "She said my dimples were cute!"

"They are cute. Tell her you're gay. Tell her you like cock."

"Girls can have cocks."

"What?"

Because Harry mumbled it. And it takes him a moment to say, "Girls… can have cocks. You can like cock and, and like girls. And, you know, boys—"

"Jesus, I know that." Louis frowns, not appreciating the lesson. "It was a fucking joke. You know what I mean. I'm not fucking stupid." 

He decides to look at the shopping basket to keep from an argument. But there's a silent affliction at the sight of said basket, as Louis decides to switch the bottles of red and white polish for black and blue instead. No candy cane nails— no way. 

But just as he’s reaching down for a quick replacement, he balls his hand into a fist and smacks it on his thigh. 

"We don't like women. Yeah?"

Harry only gives him his side profile to talk to.

"No fucking problem with saying that is there? No new, um, _progressive_ and inoffensive way of saying it that you haven't graced me with your superior fucking knowledge on?"

“Hold this for me.”

A phone is placed in his grasp.

“It’s making my trousers fall. Put it in your backpack, please,” he tells him as he grabs the basket and places the remaining items on the counter for the woman to scan. The red and white nail polish goes first. Louis narrows his eyes as he shrugs off his bag, unzipping the opening before throwing Harry’s phone into the dark, mysterious collection of garbage living in his $1600 Burberry backpack.

They don’t miss the one hour train ride to the city.

  
  


“Stop.”

“Ug _gghh!!_ What the _fuck_ is it now?!”

The little button clicks and Kid leans over the microphone. “Still, um. Hold on...”

The sound engineers sitting in the recording studio murmur criticism amongst each other.

“It’s me!” Harry hollers in his soundproof cube. “Say it’s me, I’m the fucking problem! Fucking _say_ it! Jesus— I’m _sorry_!”

Louis looks up from his phone, halfway through a text to Jordan about some film he’s developing for the album booklet, when he takes note of Harry’s increasing frustration from inside the recording booth and frowns.

Record labels don’t just give you time off to do nothing that will make them money. Harry has an album to write, and LA is the ideal port for all dollar signs to set sail. Headquarters were calling soon after tour, and so was everyone else he was glad to ignore across the globe under the excuse of work for all those months. Homecoming was dreadful.

Because Harry was _back_ . He was off _work_. They swarmed like moths to a flame, or maybe flies to farmer’s market fruit. But Harry couldn’t stand it. Not for a second. Fall and winter holidays only granted him so much breathing space with so many invites to parties full of strangers, even if they still called him their friend.

He wanted Japan. Hasn't said why, but Louis guessed for the sake of his whim, maybe. He knows he had to compromise with a lie that said the exotic far east was a source of inspiration. 

It’s been obvious enough by the end result that music-making was secondary to Harry’s original plans. 

“What is it?”

It’s the sixth take in a row of the same damn song, making for dozens of rewritten and modified versions, and hundreds total from scrapped songs altogether. 

Kid is a mid-30’s egghead with a bleached crew cut and blunt bangs at the front. He’s worn and tired in pajamas along with every other tired music-maker in the room, making for some visual on the state of things. Louis is this hilarious beam of good sleep and designer sweats. Just visiting, clearly. 

“He’s just not getting it,” Kid tells him. “He's just not in it. Look at him.”

Louis’s walked over to take the empty seat next to him. “So take a break.”

“Mate, we've just come back from break.”

“So come back tomorrow.”

Kid rubs his eyes, drafting the least offensive way to put the Tolstoy monologue of complaints sitting in his mind. “This is… the fourth day in a row we have done exactly that and… this is still a thing we’re dealing with.”

Louis is, of course, the one to defend Harry’s honor. The wrong ear to offer unbiased sympathies from a complaining tongue. “Oh, so suddenly it’s standard to record a full song in one day.”

“Five months and he hasn’t gotten a song out of the writing sessions, or the recording sessions— with anyone. He hasn’t told you anything about that?”

No. Louis’s about to deflect. “Five months.” With arms crossed and that self-assured chuckle. “I been working on me album for years, lad. You’re talking to the wrong person here.”

“But you’ve written songs. You get me?"

“Wrong person.”

Kid drops back in his chair with a deep breath blown out with puffed cheeks. He slaps his hands over his eyes and spins himself in his chair.

Louis would’ve rather they ended the conversation there, with him reigning victorious in the debate. Especially when he’s sure Harry caught sight of Kid’s frustration, and might be beginning to feel bad. But Kid isn’t done laying out his evidence. The prosecutor pushes on, rolling his chair forward to meet for a close-range conversation with the defense attorney. Because he isn’t angry, he isn’t looking to fight. A sense of understanding is all he hopes to gain. Pleading, 

“We’re working on a budget and a deadline.”

Louis keeps his attention on Harry who stays sitting in his stool, staring at his phone with the headphones at his neck.

“You two stay loaded, right, but if me and my people are not making something we can make some money off down the road we’re, you know…” He takes a look at Harry, analyzes Louis’s response to his plight. “It’s nothing personal. We got other clientele. It’s no hard feelings, mate. I'm not attacking your… your friend here, eh?”

Harry puts his phone away and drinks some water. Stands up, shifting his weight side to side. Twists the cap off slow for some reason, frowning at the space in front of him.

"Try and understand where I'm coming from, yeah?”

Twists it back on. Louis furrows his brow.

“I'm not some dickhead giving your boy a hard time. Honestly I'm just… you know, we can call it quits now and he takes a break, we fly home.”

Harry tries to take a sip.

“Look at him.”

Lips around the closed cap as he tilts his head back like he’s getting something down.

“He looks 5 minutes away from going mad— Ow!”

Louis gives a hard smack to a deserving shoulder and pushes his chair back, standing up.

“Ow, okay sorry.” Kid winces and rubs at his arm. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“We’re taking a break.” Before walking into the recording booth, he announces, “That’s it lads, we’re done for the day!” And he’s meeting Harry by his little stool.

Kid’s got his comrades to answer to. Muttering confused and annoyed on time wasted after 5 hours of fruitless labor.

Harry’s less than happy to see them packing up. “What the fuck are you doing?” Outright angry to see Louis coming in to collect him, even with his soft tone.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

“No, I’m working! What the fuck did you do?! I’m working! What happened?!”

“Hey—”

“ _Fuck off!!_ ”

  
  


Harry needs snow, Louis decides. And thankfully, Harry is pliant enough to be taken away. Still too stubborn to agree on the walk Louis wanted, though. He had to pick his place. Fair enough. As long as it gets Harry’s mind off feeling like a failure at the rejection of too many faces. Louis’s not about to let him beat himself up over some pitchy singing. 

“I am absolutely blown away by how fucking empty this place is. We’re literally the only people here.”

“Yep!”

It’s a bench. And it’s 5:12pm on a Saturday in a public park with gazebos ready for get-togethers among pine trees and distant Osaka mountains. White snow, wind humming in the vast expanse. Louis would never dream of taking Harry anywhere in the UK that wasn’t paid to be emptied out with closed curtains, confiscated cameras, and signed NDA’s. Much less on a weekend. And without set up security— it’s just not in the realm of possibility for them.

But Japan is merciful. Japan lets them sit together on a bench while Harry paints Louis’s stubby nails and Louis smokes his second cigarette, taking in the sight with the occasional scroll through the Wiki page on Japanese folk creatures. And just talk. Talk about anything. No look over the shoulder. No hawk eyes for young women in their early twenties taking selfies and hilariously indiscreet panoramic video shots.

“You think of Japan and you think it’s just like… crowded, fucking everywhere,” Louis muses, skillfully puffing his cigarette hands-free as he scrolls on his phone through a paragraph on river kappas. “You know, like those clips of people crossing the street in this absolutely massive tight crowd. We stayed in the city last year, on your tour.” And he smiles, turning his head to the right to watch Harry where he’s hunched and focused on his manicure. He reaches for his cigarette and ashes it with his phone still in hand, quickly placing it back in his mouth. “We went stealth in our little face masks, you remember? You pussied out twenty minutes in and we just ran straight back!”

“That’s only in like, Tokyo!” Harry laughs, carefully painting a red brush stroke over Louis’s middle finger. “Tokyo was a bad idea. Big cities are quite scary.” 

Louis mocks him in a baby voice, but Harry goes on about his observations in his few days stay so far. 

“Everywhere else it’s just, like… empty. In the places I've, um… like, been to, it’s like the beginning of 28 Days Later where you can just walk around for hours and hours and only see like, 4 people on a bike. And no one else. Definitely no zombies, though!”

“I was definitely worried about that, Harry. Thank you for reassuring me.”

The middle finger is done, so Harry screws the top back on the bottle of red nail polish. “And it’s beautiful here! I like Osaka. Still a bit too, like… popular, for me. But it's gorgeous, so I go to the emptier places. Osaka's beautiful, I'm glad I picked a studio here.” 

“It is beautiful, yeah."

His attention on the white nail polish now. The bottle needs a good shake from the freezing weather that threatens to turn the liquid into goop. But it comes in handy— Louis’s nails dry in seconds. “I found this place,” he starts quietly as he delicately holds Louis’s ring fingertip. “They gave me like, certain districts that are empty but really pretty. But I found this park venturing on my own. Just lovely, isn't it? So beautiful. I'm obsessed with all these gorgeous, like… rural places. I wish I could visit every single one. And temples! Mountains, the beach." He smiles. "Ugh, that's such a dream. I'm just, like… I guess I'm doing a mini version. Little travels."

"A traveling girl!" Louis must indulge him. "I like the sound of that! Been venturing, have you, darling?”

Harry smiles. “Yeah.” And he turns his head up to look at Louis. “No face mask.”

“Oh!” Cause for celebration. They share a giggle, and Louis takes a peek at Harry’s handywork before ashing his cigarette again, then returning to his phone.

“You don’t have to, like… pay anyone or buy anything out, it’s fucking sick. It’s just perfect, honestly. Hm.” Talking low, his deep voice humming. White polish swallows Louis’s nail bed in one, two, three strokes of the mini brush. “People know how to mind their fucking business, is what it is—” 

“Oh my God, Harry.”

Louis’s cold tone makes Harry snap his head up with dread. “What?”

Louis’s looking at his phone. A second pause, and he turns it over to show Harry the screen. “You’ve been spotted in _Tokyo_.”

A Twitter update account showcasing a group picture at a strip club with Harry standing center with a smile. The relief washes over Harry, and he breaks out in his honky laugh that echoes through the park. Louis gets a firm shove for the fright, and Harry closes the nail polish bottle with a huffed, “Fucking dickhead.”

It's about to get chatty so Louis puts out the cigarette on the brass bench rails before tossing it in the snow. “Reporting to you live. Wow. Your location has been completely compromised.” Louis makes a show of his dry fascination as he scrolls through informative tweets and investigative work. “They know exactly where you are now! How ever shall you evade them?”

It’s easy enough. Harry makes a show of himself in some big city’s same places, like a mirror in a deep ocean tied to a fishing line. People like to think they’re so clever. Old photographs trickle on and span the days in red herrings. Harry Styles is so stupid, what a fool, letting everyone know where he is. Everyone is crawling all over Tokyo, Shibuya, and Harajuku looking for the golden needle in the haystack. Every strip joint owner in the area must be perplexed by the haunting of Australian white girls floating through every corner of the building before cycling through a new club. 

“Wow, they're just super sleuths. It's amazing how they figure out exactly where you are every time. Fucking geniuses, the whole lot of them. Bless them.”

Harry leans over for another look, dimples in his big cheeks. Terribly pleased his bait’s been so eagerly consumed. It's a Twitter update account with plenty of pictures to scroll through. And then he sits back to his spot. “What are they saying?”

“You haven’t been keeping up?”

“I’ve been trying not to. My anxiety just…” Explosion noises. “I hate it. I don’t wanna know anymore.”

“Someone has to.”

“Jeff always does.”

“Jeff.” Louis hums. “Yeah, he’s real careful,” said dryly. “Just don’t get sloppy, yeah?”

Harry doesn’t appreciate the warning. “I’m not.”

“Oh they’ve got a little timeline and everything. How handy! Wanna see?” 

“No,” he says, leaning over to bump shoulders for a look at Louis’s phone.

Louis stops at a photo of him with some Japanese pal at a club, posing with a grin and a peace sign. “You look so cute! I didn’t know you’ve been dropping pictures, I would’ve been keeping up. Look at you,” Louis must say, poking the screen to caress Harry’s face with his finger. And then it moves to the right, pointing out, “That’s that um… Ken...”

“Kunichi.”

“Yeah yeah that Kunichi bloke. I remember him from last year, he's a nice lad.”

Friend of many friends in film and music. Strip club owner. Brother to the sister who set Harry up with private living accommodations. They know his situation. And they know to help out without a trace. “His kid is huge now.”

“Is he?!”

“Yeah, he wants to see you again. Kunichi does too.”

Louis’s smug, popping his shoulder with rolled eyes. “I always make a good impression.”

“That picture was before you got here. I was only in the big cities for like… four days.” And Harry takes over to scroll down pictures of weeks past, and weeks before that. Photos and footage taken without him ever looking back.

And he just frowns a tiny bit. 

“Is that what I look like?”

Like he didn’t really want Louis to hear. Scowls with his tongue sticking out lazily, a gurgling noise. Much to Louis’s outrage. 

And presses the home button before returning to his side of the bench.

“Hey!” Louis turns his body away for cover.

“I look like shit. Stop looking.”

He snorts. “Okay so I’ll look at you here.” And he leans into Harry with his eyes wide. “How is this different from me looking on me phone?” Then lets them relax so they can narrow in disapproval.

And Harry just pulls his denim cap down slow, sliding down his face as he says so quietly, “If I could render you blind in my presence I would.”

Well, he’s never told him that before. And that makes Louis blink for a second. “You not wanting my attention?” He snorts. Harry’s so preposterous. “Right.” 

“Attention is different from looking at me.”

“You think you’re ugly now!” So he just laughs at him. “Yeah, God really smacked you in the face with a frying pan.” And he quickly goes a bit sour. “Fucking Adonis and you’re on about this shit now.”

“Why are you so angry with me?”

“Baby, I’m not angry.” The denial makes him antsy when he sees Harry looking at him with not much to say in his eyes. Observing, expecting something. And what can Louis say? "Alright? Look, I'm sorry." What can he do? The point he wanted to make vanishes with cold feet.

"Do you think I could ever be pretty?"

Louis furrows his brow, giving Harry a little smile. "You're already pretty, baby."

Harry blinks his gaze away, manifesting the will to speak. To say. "I don't mean some… new, redefined 'soft boy' trendy 'pretty'. I mean…" And he says it softly: "Normal 'pretty'. Actual 'pretty'."

What was that supposed to mean? Harry's every thesaurus's stock for the word 'beauty'. Louis's never thought to organize them by category. So he just says, "Yes, actual 'pretty'. Regular 'pretty', every 'pretty'. You're very pretty. You look like a little china doll."

Harry stirs a little on the bench, smiling, cold. Obviously thrilled by the comparison.

"You're just as fragile, too."

He chortles. "Fuck you."

Louis puts his phone away and reaches out his hand to stroke Harry’s cheek. Scoots closer, gives him a kiss on the nose.

“Look at me boy…”

Harry gives him a little smile and leans his head into Louis’s palm. Darling angel, mermaid from the stars, Cupid stabbing him in the eyes with an arrow in either hand. What words could Louis find to describe him? Ones he hasn’t already said? It seems unfathomable that the lovechild of Mick Jagger and Françoise Hardy could be so unfond of his looks, enough to hide in shame and wish his true love would never lay eyes on him again. And it’s a new feeling, certainly. Harry was such an ass about how good-looking he was when he was eighteen.

“You getting insecure on me?” 

Some ploy to make him baby him more— he’s sure of it. He did it all the time in the early years of their relationship. And it’s a bit frustrating to feel that for all his worship and praise Harry would find room for doubt in his attraction to him. Because it’s about himself right away to Louis. Always about him and some sudden and immediate fear of inadequacy at Harry’s negative reviews. They simply must be raving, 10/10, A+ at every turn. The monument of their love must be a perfect display without a crack or chip. Louis of course has no dissatisfaction, so why does Harry? What has he done? After a decade together, and with so much pressure from their jobs, the love must persevere. They can’t afford a weak spot.

Be gone, ocean tide. You leave this sand castle alone. Harry need not test his love in a relationship nine years in the making. Must Louis play Bruno Mars? ‘So, don’t even bother asking if you look okay, you know I’ll say…’

“I wish you weren’t such a little shit.”

At least Harry laughs good and hard like a witch, the way Louis loves. Then Louis doesn’t have to worry about being taken seriously next time he calls him a horrible demon for pulling out freshly baked red velvet cake after stuffing him with a banquet of English comfort food. Although, he’ll have to put off calling him ugly, stinky, and disgusting when he’s overcome with love at some unbelievable show of sweetness from Harry— at least, until further notice. Until he solves the problem. Which should be soon. 

It’ll be soon.

It gets dark soon enough. So they have to take the train back to the apartment.

  
  


"It really does look like candy canes."

Harry opens his eyes and looks up at Louis, who marvels at his stubby nails so expertly painted in Santa Claus colors. “It only took you an hour to notice my impeccable nail technician skills on your hands.”

“Oh this is stunning work, darling. You know I just get distracted. I’m sorry.” He moves his hand away from his line of vision and looks down at Harry where he lies with his head on his lap. “Will you forgive me?”

Harry furrows his brow and closes his eyes, lips pursing for a big, childish pout and a huff. “ _No._ ”

Louis bends down and gives him a million feathery kisses until Harry squeals with a grin.

“Okay, I forgive you.”

Sakai Line has one hell of a noisy rail train. Old and charming all the same, especially when it's so colorful. The other Japanese trains Louis's been on have been more polished than any form of public transportation he can make a comparison with. Maybe even private transportation. That's a powerful statement for a globetrotter to make. But it's hard to hold back fascination when the circumstances he sits in are so dangerous. To the point where his stomach refuses to stop clenching, and his skin prickles with the need to puff nicotine. 

Upon insistence, Louis has a fat head on his lap to play with. So very dangerous— and how miserable the truth in it. The instinct to know risk in sitting still, sitting in a crowd.

Sitting with Harry's head in his lap. 

Eyes closed within demand to be held, an overgrown infant needing attention. Comfort. And it's remarkable he can find it under these conditions. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe the thrill of it all pacifies him in a burn out. 

Harry's heavy, that's for sure. And there sure are people around them. But no one watches. Raven heads look at feet and phones or keep their eyes closed for a quick nap. The two white men speaking softly to each other are people as any other. Insignificant, and on their way to somewhere that is not there.

And isn't that the truth. Wouldn't it be nice if it were real.

"I don't think nail polish could ever be me thing, though. You know what I mean? Like it is for you."

"What's your thing?"

"Personally or reportedly?"

Harry narrows his eyes up at him, playfully. 

And so Louis giggles. "Um… Me thing is… I don't know, I suppose the indie thing. Maybe a bit of pop punk. No, that's not the… Um… sweats— no, streetwear, streetwear! That's me thing, yeah. I'm a trackies lad!"

"Yeah, streetwear. Comfy."

"Comfy."

"I love you comfy."

Louis grins. "You're quite comfy now, eh?" He slides his left arm under Harry's head and places the right across his chest. Harry hums with eyes closed and no shame. "Got you cradled here. Comfy boy."

"How do you love me?"

Louis fixes Harry's beret so it's snug on his head again. "I love you always." And he smiles, knowing it's an answer Harry will find comfort in. The best one. "I love you happy." When he feels him nuzzling his arm, dimpled cheeks. "That's how I love you. Love seeing you happy." Loves him the most.

"What is it about girls you don't like?"

It catches Louis by surprise in a sucker punch. Brute. And rude. "What?" 

It's when Harry sits up to face him in his seat to his right that something in Louis goes sour. Because Harry doesn't spare him a word. Just leaves him with that tone that rang like a wrong, ugly note played on a crooked string. It was just a second, but Louis caught it.

The judgement in his question. "I don't know," he says. Dry, dusty in the air.

"Is it the way they look?"

He sighs deep through his nose, eyes already narrowed at the floor. "Yeah, I guess."

Harry's expression is a white paper sheet as he looks at Louis. And if Louis spared him a glance he'd see he was nervous beyond comprehension. He always is when he's barren and monotone in his voice, so dense with anxiety he stifles emotion completely. "Is it the tits and pussy? Or like, the face?"

"I mean… girls are girls and guys are guys."

"So because they look different."

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Harry's eyes go a bit wide when Louis turns his head to face him. But nothing extends beyond that. 

"What, you quizzing me? Trying to see if I can pass some test?"

The train is loud, far from the big city budgets that allow for fancy upgrades and quiet riding. It's a bit hard to hear Harry when he says, "I'm just asking."

Pursed lips, a shift in his seat, head turned away again. Then a loud sigh again that he wants Harry to hear. "They act different. There's a vibe, you know— you just know. Okay, I don't fucking know."

"Would you like me if I was a girl?"

Is that what it was? Insecurity _again_ ? Doubt about _this_? Louis didn't want to be angry, but it was beginning to trim at his sympathy. Deadpan when he says, "Harry I'd love you if you turned into a goldfish."

"But if I was always a girl. With tits, no cock. Would you have fancied me?"

"Would you have if I was?" he snaps, looking at Harry again to see if he'd be annoyed by the ricochet.

But it's the most feeble, clumsy sound instead. "Well y— yeah, no. I… I might..."

"Do you like girls?"

"Do you?"

"No."

Harry's got his palms on his knees, pressing his weight down on top of them. "Okay."

"I like men."

Doesn't give him a response. And Louis doesn't know at all what to make of it. He just knows that denying him a reply and leaving him in the dark without a single spark of clarity is infuriating. And the topic so personal, debated for whatever reason— he can't stand it. What he really thinks.

"You're not about to fucking upgrade me into a trendier label."

Harry's turn. "Oh don't be a fucking _prick_ ! You fucking _idiot_!"

The neighboring commuters turn their heads up this time. Those two white boys in the corner are making a scene. The curly-haired one in a beret is up on his feet with balled fists and furious eyes shooting down at his friend. And as much as he fidgets and exhausts his breathing, nothing comes out. His initial burst of fire goes miserably cold.

But the one sitting down isn't short on words— or flames.

" _Fuck off!_ Asking me stupid fucking questions and you call _me_ an idiot! Got a lot of fucking nerve! The _fuck_ is your problem?!"

" _N-Nothing_...!"

Oh. That was pathetic. Enough for Harry let out his first real, deep breath. And walk away. 

Louis isn't finished.

He's up on his feet to follow Harry as he walks away, down to the other side of the train. Stomping, storming, "Is this what's had you in a— i-in your fucking mood?"

"Fuck off."

"You know what it is? You're fucking paranoid, you get to thinking about stupid shit that's never gonna happen when y-y— you're up on your, your shit, your fucking anxiety or whatever, out here by yourself with nothing better to do!"

The walking doesn't last long. Harry reaches the end of the coach and stands facing the wall. 

"Is that what you been doing, you just keep playing these scenarios out in your head and you put it on me?"

Silence is all he spares. His back is Louis's only sight of him, but he gives it the confrontation Harry's avoiding anyway. In a shallow enough part of him he longs to assert dominance, victory over this heated debate. Drawing out his opponent, demanding a bark back to meet his outrage. To tend to it. To ease the weight that anger holds.

But mostly, Louis really wishes Harry would just answer. Beneath his malice is a sort of goodness that begs for its turn to heal the wounds between them. Old wounds. Things unspoken. 

Let him fix it.

If only he had the patience to phrase it just as so. With hurt feelings all he can spit is venom.

"Or what is it, you— you woke up in the middle of the night worried I'm not a faggot anymore? Is that it? Eh? You think I only like women now, you trying to test me? You need me to get into drag so you can sleep at night, darling, is that it?"

"Leave me alone."

It's _that_ part of their argument now. White flag come as a mild-mannered murmur.

Louis never shows it dishonor.

"Whatever."

It would be humiliating to let on how fast his heart races when he yells at Harry. How deep his stomach sinks into a sticky, cold pit. But he's never aware of his dread until after their battle is suspended without a winner. Until he's left a loser, alone, with nothing but a replay to remind him of his offense, and drown him in guilt impossible to shake off. 

Headphones help, though— ABBA on shuffle is especially appreciated. Louis can't stand to pay penance this time. Not when a resolution is only in reach after miles of swamp and mud he can't get through before the train's next stop. He needs answers Harry won't give him to clear a path first. 

What did he even ask him those questions for? What was the purpose? It felt like a riddle that doomed him to the wrong answer no matter what he said. But Harry peppering their previous conversations with insecurities on his appearance has him rethinking the insidiousness of it all. Alone, reflecting, it's abundantly clear that it could never be that bad. Nothing could ever triumph over his protection. Nothing serious could possibly be wrong. Harry was just thinking in a stupid hypothetic.

Why did he get so angry?

"Shit."

He really needs to apologize. Really needs a cigarette too.

" _I feel a kind of fear_

_When I don't have you near_

_Unsatisfied_

_I skip my pride_

_I beg you, dear…_

_Don't go wasting your emotion_

_Lay all your love on me_

_Don't go sharing your devotion_

_Lay all your love on me!_ "

"It's our stop."

Kawasakiguchi Station.

Of course Harry wouldn't leave Louis on the train. He comes over to fulfill his responsibility with no resentment to be read off his face. All the same to Louis— he only gives him one glance before grabbing his bag and following him out into the station. Hand on Harry's waist. But not a word spared to each other.

There's something unbearably fateful about them being the only two people at the stop. And even moreso when Louis realizes they're outdoors in what is a snowy expanse surrounding them, so solitary that the wind whistling feels like the only bold presence among them. 

Louis finally gets that cigarette he was desperate for. Nicotine in the lungs always carries comfort in the freezing cold. And as shameful as it has to be, it's the only thing to bring him the equilibrium to draft his apology. Kicking the snow off the wooden floorboards, pacing away from where he knows Harry stands behind him. 'I'm sorry' is too easy to say. It's the timing that always jams the gates, leaving him standing stupid and irresolute.

Kind of what Harry looks like when he turns around and sees him standing there, looking at him from a five foot distance.

"I'm sorry." Louis wasn't the one to say it. And it feels horrible to know true atonement has been irrevocably spoiled. 

"No, don't be. Don't be," Louis rushes, brow furrowed. He takes a hard drag of his cigarette then blows out quick, desperate to be the one at fault. "Jesus— No, y-you haven't done anything, Harry. I was a fucking dick."

The only thing to make it worse is Harry's refusal to close distance. It makes the wound seem bigger, too severe to mend in one day. Mixed signals maybe. And Louis can't say it's the reaction he was expecting at all. He has to take another drag to ease himself up when Harry makes no effort to answer a second time. 

So he tries again. "It was nothing. And, you know, I blew up on you. I don't know what I was fucking thinking."

Again.

"It was stupid— _I_ was stupid, you were right."

Harry's got his hands in his jacket pockets, expression stiff. He shifts his weight. Then looks at his shoes. He isn't giving him a thing to work with. Rigid and silent. 

"Okay, w-what— What did you even mean? Darling, can you tell me that?"

And this time Harry meets his gaze with something fragile and quivering. Just a second. And Louis figures he might've taken a step in the right direction, fingers on just the right button.

"I mean, I wanna get it. Obviously I got it real fucking twisted, didn't I? Right, I'm stupid so… enlighten me—"

"Fuck." 

Harry walks away when he realizes he's started to cry in front of him. 

His palms are quickly brought to his eyes to keep what's pouring a secret, body turned from Louis completely. "Ugh, fuck..." Deep sniff, beret off so he can throw his head back and force his tears back. Sighs hard, eyes back to the floor with dry, reddened eyes. 

What was that about? Louis doesn't ask.

"Sorry, I just— I'm fine." Sniffs. Hat back on. "I'm fine." So grown, so put together with a 10/10 rebound.

The thing is, Harry gravitates to Louis like if it were a vertical drop. 

His withdrawl from him doesn't last even a second before he's in his arms. Closeness. Face buried in the crook of Louis's neck with arms wrapped across his back tight. Their coats are so bulky.

And Louis knows. Louis knows his cue. That cigarette is tossed in the floor quick.

"Aw, you baby…" He's speaking soft like he's got a child to comfort. One arm to his lower back and the other to cradle the back of his head. With levity, above all else; Harry's some little, little fool. "Don't cry." A small voice makes it all sound so inconsequential, like he isn't even upset. 

Suddenly the only problem is that Harry is sniffling into his coat, the spat between them on the train ripped from the pages of their history. Apparently too severe to explore with the resolution it calls for. Fine by Louis. Rubbing circles into Harry's back as he looks out at the mountains of Yamadera is a feeling he'll miss. 

"Don't like it when you cry, baby…" Well, Harry doesn't either. It has to be stifled and rubbed dry the second his face gets wet. At least, the way it always has been. "You gonna make me baby you now? Hm?"

Louis would say this is where they work best, and where his duty thrives as a vision of what could _always_ be. For complex problems to be met with makeshift solutions. For Harry to be teased and turned tiny when upset, easy and fast to fix the way Harry's always begged. It always works. Maybe Harry cried a bit on purpose again this time, Louis thinks. That makes him feel better. All he wanted was to be held after getting yelled at, effective immediately without words. 

Overreacting, after all.

Right? 

Louis is too sure of himself to ever ask. He never does say he's sorry. And Harry never takes him to Daiso.

  
  


Louis is on his best behavior for the remaining five days of his stay. Harry gets bitchy on the occasion and snaps at Louis with no engagement in return. He gets over it every time, and Louis does him the favor of pretending he never called him an inconsiderate, lazy fuck for forgetting to take off his shoes _every_ time they entered the apartment. Or that time he ranted about what a self-centered, entitled asshole he was for refusing to eat fermented tofu and going for McDonald’s instead. 

Louis was too afraid to ever seriously apologize for anything the way he wanted, knowing Harry would immediately drown in self loathing and isolation with more apologies than Louis was even planning on giving in the first place. Best to move on when Harry gets moody. He’s sensitive, anxious. And it’s hard to take anything personally anyway. No harm, no foul. By the time it was the last night of his week long stay, things were perfect. Louis reluctantly wiped off his nail polish with cotton and acetone, his bags packed. Countdown to tomorrow’s plane trip to London is all they’re left to do just minutes before bedtime.

Domesticity. Harry scrubs his armpits dry with his towel, fresh off the shower. No wall, and that's funny. He’s just right there five feet away, in the three cubic feet that make for the shower while Louis watches him on the bed in his briefs. Harry’s naked, hair still safe under his flower-print shower cap. It’s a framed scene under a single lamp light and dubbed Doraemon in the background. It hasn’t been a vibe in a while, this sparkling encasing surrounding him like an aquarium. Such a hilariously homely room. Like they could’ve really lived there if it weren’t for the money. Like it’s safe.

And Louis’s just in love. He always is, but sensory deprivation has him drowning in it. Staring fondly, adoring Harry’s peaceful existence with this silent passion buzzing under his skin. Great view too— great bum. After Harry takes off the shower cap and dries himself off, he doesn’t land in the mood for underwear.

“So Japan’s just this place, innit?”

Harry walks over to his duffel bag, limp dick bouncing side to side. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just… this good place, like… It’s nice. Is that why you wanted to come?”

Harry’s got a handy little mirror set up with a stand on the floor where he crouches down, reflecting his smile back at Louis. Some serums and moisturizers come out the bag and are ready to apply. “You like it?” Fixes his hair first. Long-ish curls, enough to push out of his face and behind his ears. "Japan, so far?"

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been to a couple of places. But I like it here in this like, area so I’ve just been here.” Vitamin C serum to his sculpted face. “It’s beautiful and… so, so quiet. Did you know this place was built in the 60s? This building?” Down his neck. 

"Yeah, you told me."

Looking at himself with eyes that scan and analyze. Slow traces, touching around. Looks down and grabs a bottle of moisturizer. “No one gives a shit about me here. It’s the best thing.” Quiet mumbling as he applies it on his face, telling himself, “I’m fucking no one, no one ever looks at me. And it’s so nice to just be no one, and nothing.” Drops his hands and just looks at himself. Starts to poking, tracing his fingertips along his jaw, the lazy stubble on his face. “It’s like I’m not real anymore. I don’t really miss anything.”

Well, Louis doesn’t like the sound of any of that. Harry’s so dramatic in this odd and silly phase he’s in. Trivial blues. What a chore it’s been all week. What does he want? Louis thinks he should know by now. His attention goes back to the tiny television and its local broadcast, not wanting to cast some glum expression.

“Would you like it if my chest was bigger?”

“What?”

“I mean…” Harry puts his skincare products back in his designer bags. Mumbling, “Would it gross you out if my pecs, like… just got bigger...”

Louis snorts. “No. What, you growing tits?” He cranes his neck to take a good look at Harry from where he sits on the floor.

And Harry turns to the left for a quick display. Nice, shapely pecs stamped with inked swallows. Flexes them with his biceps as he looks down. “See? They're quite big, aren’t they.”

“Yeah, you got big tits. Like Dolly Parton.”

“Dolly P—!” Harry cackles and turns his back to Louis again. “It’s because I just do a lot o-of, like, bench presses! And they’re… well, they’re really big.” And he sounds embarrassed about it, insecure with huffed little laughs. “They're big enough, aren’t they? I should probably… slow down. Right?”

There’s no way Harry is expecting him to agree. Exchanges like this are about reassurance, though Harry won’t admit it. Louis will bet on it. But however annoying he finds it that Harry holds enough room for doubt in his loyalty to still confront him with insecurity, he doesn’t hesitate to tell the back of Harry’s wet head, “I don’t care what you do. You do whatever makes you feel best, love.”

Quietly, “What if I go up to B cup?” 

“C cup.”

And Harry snorts. “You wouldn't care if it went up to C cup?!”

“You could grow a third tit for all I care.” He grins at Harry’s pursed lips and delighted hums, and goes on with everything else he knows he was fishing to hear, “Honestly, I— I love whatever you've got, you know. I genuinely mean that. Don’t, you know… feel bad about your body on account of me ever. Cos you know I love whatever’s going on with it.” What Makes You Beautiful and Little Things— ridiculous how life is imitating art. With Harry facing away he can afford to roll his eyes with a chuckle before saying, “Right, I love your tummy, and I love your gargoyle feet, and I love—I loved your bum before you even had one!”

Harry makes a noise that’s half whine and half laugh. Still won’t turn around. Bashful to an unprecedented degree. Louis doesn’t want to ask what’s going on because he won’t get an answer. Just wants him to shut up. And not get sad again— not over his pecs.

“You’re too old to be worrying about this, Haz. I mean, about how _I_ feel.”

Harry doesn’t make much of a sound, looking at his reflection. 

“I love you always. Whatever happens.”

Turns his head right away at that, big smile with dimples in his chubby cheeks. And something about him is looking dazed behind his joy. “I love you, too.” The green is foggy, his pupils blown. Like his mind is treading through a roller coaster that muffles his concentration. And Harry just looks at him there, sitting with his bare ass on the floor and the sheen of skincare products on his face. His gaze could mean anything at all. 

He doesn’t know him anymore, Louis thinks in a glitch. Can’t read him anymore. And that wraps over his head with a python squeeze. Because Harry’s troubled and a little sensitive, and he’ll be alone to fend with that for a week. 

And that’s enough to make his vision blur with a sigh, oblivious to Harry digging through his bag as he watches a cartoon to wash a sour taste away.

“ _Hey there! My name is_ **_Doraemon_ ** _! I’m a supersized, gizmo-rized gadget cat from the future!_ ”

“Look.”

Louis’s got an eyeful to see when he turns his attention to the edge of the bed. A big grin spreads wide with raised brows and a delighted laugh. “Oh!”

Oh. 

Harry’s holding up a baby pink babydoll at his chest. Pearl ribbon between the cups, see through tulle hanging with ruffles at the bottom. Short thing, swishing over his shaved balls.

It’s lingerie.

It’s a lightbulb going off with a ding.

_So that’s what this is all about._

“You told me you hadn’t been shopping.”

Harry pets it, running his hand down the tulle. “...Well I bought this.”

Louis’s problem solving skills crack their knuckles and get ready to overachieve.

Because he’s already done this before— a few weeks ago. Vanquished was this weak little dragon with his sword and armor barely scratched. He’s surprised it’s a _thing_ , a real thing, yet relieved at the same time. Like a cold with a little remedy, no big deal at all. 

Fine. _Let’s get this over with, shall we?_

“I got it from a little, um— I saw it in a shop. Window. And I don’t know.”

“You gonna put it on for me?”

Hesitation again, just like the month before. Only this time Harry smiles as his skin turns rosy. It could he giddiness. Could be fear. Could be shame.

“Let me see you in it.”

And Harry’s cheeks dimple deep. Like the first time Louis ever told him he had a crush on him. Why would they? Why would this be special? “Well turn around!”

“Turn around? How am I gonna turn around— I’m lying on me ass here."

"Turn _over_!"

Giggles between them as Louis just turns his body over to his left side and covers his eyes with his palm. He thought it would take long, until he realized Harry was naked from the start.

“Okay!”

And was he a sight.

Harry Styles standing in a cheap, tacky, bright pink babydoll. Every synonym for 'rose' Louis doesn't know. Gorgeous beauty, the most perfect boy. Louis abandons critique with a good, hard throw the second he catches Harry's gaze. So far away is his belief that he hates the thing; wants it off, thinks it's ridiculous. To clash Adonis with magenta and tulle is tasteless and embarrassing, his sincerity would confess. But there is no virtue in honesty here. The real sainthood comes from bias. From the unconditional fanaticism that says,

“Baby you look amazing," in a nearly breathless murmur. Smiling, looking him up and down over and over like it keeps being the first time. "You look absolutely _gorgeous_."

“Do you mean it?” And Harry slaps his palms over his eyes with a slump, a weird laugh. “I dunno!”

“You’re fucking stunning, you’re perfect. You’re perfect, baby. C’mere.”

What Harry really wanted.

The room fills up fast with the steam of slick skin and hot breaths. Cocksucking and kissing and rimming. Louis could brag on and on about how clever and receptive he is to Harry’s needs. Making himself this fantasy come alive. Who else would? Every word perfect, every touch fervent with desire like he’s a dream. Making Harry’s fears die out, whatever they were in the first place. It would end here, tonight, between Harry's legs. 

What he wanted, right?

“You like me eating you out?” Louis hums with a kiss over Harry’s hole, jerking himself off on the floor. Sucks on it, gets it wet, gets Harry panting where he lies spread on the edge of the bed. Looking down at him while propped on his elbows, soft cock under his babydoll.

“Mmhh…”

Louis’s moaning with a suckle, a lick over Harry’s crack so he whines. “Yeah?”

Doraemon is still on. Just on mute. Gizmo cat and his human buddy being goofy on the television screen. Primary colors in bright yellow and blue.

“Look how it’s fucking begging for me. You’re a little slut, aren’t you?” 

Harry likes that, grinding down into Louis's face. And then he does this thing; he presses his left hand on his cock and balls, pulled up and pressed down flat under his palm. The right hand is the one at work in a funny way. Louis doesn't pay attention— the way Harry rubs his middle and ring finger in circles over the mound of his taint.

Harry takes his cock a bit quiet again, same as always. Limp, as always. While Louis thrusts inside him between those spread legs, he’s mesmerized by the sight of him. Small, lithe, meaty young man with biceps and fat pecs sitting under tight pink lace. And he's squeezing them like tits again. How did this happen? Louis’s into it, he thinks. Whatever helps him cope with… whatever. He rams his cock into him hard with hands planted on the mattress and no problem. But maybe it’s the rush of a job well done that really gets him off. Being of such service that he leaves Harry a sweating, panting mess.

No. It’s weird to Louis, like it always has been. The babydoll covers him up, masking nearly all of him beneath an unsuitably hyperfeminine veil. But it’s an easy solution for him to indulge in, especially when it involves, well, fucking. He can bust a load and his mind can yell victory when the afterglow of sex wraps across Harry’s red, sweaty face. A deeply satisfied boyfriend, sleepy, his relationship a source of pure bliss. If he's really just stuck in a patch of insecurity, some body worship should soothe whatever sore spots have him down.

"You gonna cum for me?" he murmurs across Harry's lips, a lazy kiss as he wraps his hand around his soft, little cock.

Maybe it was discreet, or maybe Louis was too focused on how tight Harry's hole was— but Harry moves Louis's hand away quick, and lifts his right leg toward the left so Louis gets the idea. So he pulls out, and lets Harry switch to his belly. Louis fixes up the pink babydoll so it doesn't tug and pull under him, while Harry lies cheek to the pillow, ass perked just enough for him to get a nice look at his stretched hole.

And further thinking just can't be afforded.

He's fucking Harry hard again. Moaning curses and compliments, kissing his shoulder, spreading his ass apart, working his hole the way he always does. Loud and appreciative of the gorgeous body surrendered to him. Louis loves getting verbal with it. Worshipping, rubbing his broad back down to where the tulle drapes down his hips. Cock in and out again and again.

"So pretty, my pretty baby…" Kisses kisses, to his flushed cheek and bright pink little ears, down his neck. "My pretty princess…"

Louis can't be sure if he hadn't noticed until now, or if it's a new development— but it takes him by surprise all the same.

Harry's making noise. 

Whimpering into the pillow, muffled, eyes squeezed shut. And Louis might be aroused out of his mind but there's always room for competitiveness, and the consciousness that tells him that this is something special. 

_I'm gonna fix it, I'm gonna fix it._

Water in the dry riverbank, rain across a dead plain. A miracle, heaven come to earth. He never thought it would happen again without effort.

So he puts it in. Fucks him harder, hard as he can until he gets it— more. Louis doesn't know what he's doing right, what he's doing different. Harry doesn't stop. That hot, toned body beneath him just melts the more Louis gets out of it. Knees on the mattress, back straight, and hands on Harry's hips, he's got a brutal rhythm now. And it's remarkable enough he smirks just focusing on the sounds Harry's making. 

A silent room, and nothing but, 

"Ungh, ungh, ungh, _ungh_ …!!" 

Over and over, higher and higher in the back of Harry's throat. Like a pornstar again— a girl squeaking and doing the most until it's too much to really be sexy. What's gotten into him? " _Fuck_ , baby…" Lingerie? The right spot? Harry's so loud and pitchy it doesn't even sound like it could come from him. 

And it's a little weird. A lot weird. 

But Louis cums anyway. Even in his confusion the thrill didn't go anywhere from his cock. It was the best orgasm he'd had in months, and it felt like he had to ride it out forever inside him. Out of breath completely.

And yet. 

"Darling baby…"

It doesn't feel right to stop so long as Harry is still blessing him with a response. He isn't even inside him anymore and Harry is just whimpering like a baby. Louis kisses him as soft as he can, and moves him gently until he's turned enough he can cup his cheeks and just look at him. Babying him beyond what he's ever gotten out of him.

Tells him he's the sweetest, softest, most beautiful thing. Angel wings and newborn's fleece. Harry never opens his eyes once, hands grasping Louis's wrists as he stays mewling high and tiny through every compliment, every caress. Just a baby now. What else would he be? Again and again, so quiet Louis can only deduce he's doing it for his own ease. 

No. He won't call it weird this time. The sound is too soft in his heart to be anything but precious. 

"I love you." Harry doesn't say it in his own voice. And Louis doesn't realize how significant it is that he thought of it that way. He just melts when he sees how Harry's smiling at him like he's wrapped in light and crowned with a halo. 

"I love you, baby…" Nothing else to think at all.

Because Louis just knows everything. He always gets it right. This 

little problem

has officially been solved.

Nothing but an episode.

Harry cuddles him the rest of the night while Louis’s cum runs down his thighs lazily, making the sheets sticky. And he’s just leaving kisses like flower petals fluttering down. 

“You’re my baby…”

Louis is 'baby' this time. 

King of the sand castle. 

"Did you finish?"

"Hm?"

Louis taps his index finger on the tip of Harry's cock. Harry jerks a little, elbow getting in the way.

"Oh— Yeah." He lifts his babydoll and quickly rubs over his stomach. "It's dry. Now."

"I didn't see."

  
  
  


The send-off to the airport the day after is a real treat. The sunrise came and they shined with it. Harry made eggs and bacon with toast and some muffins he bought on his morning jog. Very serviceable. Very giggly. Louis could hear him go, “Bye-bye honeeyyyyyy~!” as he walked down the hall from their room with his luggage dragging behind him.

Louis thinks it’s odd that Harry wasn’t texting him on the 2 hour drive to Osaka's Itami Airport. He sent him at least a dozen. Bad signal? It was the right number. Was the service on Harry’s burner phone up? Did he forget to pay it? That leaves him annoyed an hour into traffic, scrolling through blue speech bubbles with no grey in between. To make matters worse,

“ _Shit._ ”

Out of cigarettes on a dead highway. 

So he gets to digging through his designer backpack for a lost stick in need of a home. Antsy, growling with a sudden anxiety the way it always comes without a fag or three every few hours. And it’s been a few. Gonna be a few more. Empty snack baggies, brochures, a map, a travel-sized manicure kit, two _empty_ packs of cigarettes, and—

oh,

Harry’s phone.

That’s so funny. It’s been in his backpack on silent since Harry tried to fix his falling trousers a whole _week_ ago. That’s why he wasn’t getting a text back. He wonders how Harry hadn’t noticed, until he remembers he was having a social media fast to soothe an addiction to lurking, cold turkey.

Louis's one to lurk, though. And Harry is no exception. The first thing he sees is the Youtube app open on the homepage.

_Masquerade Hotel - Movie Review_

_Our Japanese Earthquake Emergency Bag_

_Earthquake Preparedness in Japan Japanology_

_What to do when there's an earthquake in Japan_

_NEVER Do These 10 Things in JAPAN!_

_What Japanese Breakfast is Like_

_Winter Rail Travel in Japan on 7 Day JR Pass (Hokkaido / Honshu)_

_What To Do In Japan: Tokyo, Hakone, Mt. Fuji, Kyoto, Nara, Osaka, Kanazawa, Takayama, Nagano_

And then it gets funny.

_THE MOST IMPRESSIVE MAKEUP AND BODY ART ILLUSIONS_

_27 EXTREME BUT HELPFUL BEAUTY SECRETS_

_Teen Claims She’s 9 Months Pregnant With Baby Jesus – What Does An Ultrasound Reveal?_

Louis laughs.

_Preparing To Give Birth To 6 Babies! | Sweet Home Sextuplets_

Then a little sweet, a little sad. Baby fever— Harry’s always got it.

_Breastfeeding and Baby Massage_

_Home Birth Part 2 - Water Birth of Jasper_

_TWIN BREASTFEEDING BEACH_

_Scarlets reaction to eating a Cheeseball made with Breast Milk: Baby Led Weaning_

_Breastfeeding And Cooking - Life of A Busy Mama_

_Breastfeeding A Baby With Two Teeth_

And then…

Louis wishes he had a word for what he felt after the next thumb scroll down Harry’s Youtube history. It must’ve been the expectations. Or a lack, thereof. He wasn't thinking of a thing.

He wasn't 

prepared 

for a thing.

Not when he reads,

. _Top 10 Estrogen Rich Foods_

_I HAVE BOOBS!!! | 3 MONTHS ON HORMONES_

_I WAS HOMELESS... | 1 YEAR ON HORMONES | Life Update_

_BODY ON ESTRADIOL: 3 Months_

_3 Months on Estrogen UPDATE | MtF Transgender_

_How To | Full Body with boobs! | Drag Queen Boy To Girl Transformation 2 kier_

A story in descending order; rewinding a state of mind told in thumbnails and titles since Harry landed in Japan.

_Why is the trans suicide rate so high? | Riley J. Dennis_

_In Memory of Sydney Ralph - Stillbirth / Stillborn Memorial_

_Jessica's Story - A Journey through Childbirth and Intensive Care Unit_

_Telling my boyfriend I'M PREGNANT! *He was not expecting this*_

_How hormones (HRT) change a trans woman’s body | Riley J. Dennis_

_NONBINARY AND TRANSITIONING??? My Body Dysphoria | ChandlerNWilson_

_Dysphoria: What is it + How to deal with it | Stef Sanjati_

_Trans 101: Ep 4 - Gender Dysphoria Diagnosis [CC]_

_Baby And Mom | Funny Baby compilation_

_Day in the Life (Part.2) Breastfeeding in Nature!_

_Funny Babies Laughing Hysterically at Mommy Compilation, Funniest Babies Laughing Videos_

_THE MOST COMFORTABLE WAY TO TUCK_

_TUCKING TUTORIAL | Talking With The Tuck - Episode 2_

Because it was a typical day. A cycle. Step by step of a trigger and a ride through an up, and a hard crash down, and then something stupid to wash it all off like a bad taste after a bitter pill crumbled on the tongue. Typical days. Scrolling down it all went on loop, the combination. And Louis noticed.

The whole thing clicked in an instant like he already knew the whole damn story.

But 

Harry's just educating himself. 

Maybe Harris has got him interested, keen on understanding a community he's been denied in favor of bearded wisemen who see Jim Morrisson as their goal post. Gucci's gender play. Glam rock androgyny. Curiosity.

That's not what Louis was really thinking. 

It didn’t happen. He didn’t see anything.

The trembling hands, the nausea, the racing heart—

he just needs his cigarettes.

Louis doesn’t know what it means.

He doesn’t know what it fucking means.

  
  
  


London is a nightmare in winter. The sky is gray from dusk to dawn, sleepy towns freeze over, and whatever warmth to be felt in red brick city streets die with the autumn leaves buried under dirty snow. But slipping into LA's celebrity coma and going brain dead in the glamour is a constant fear, so work and homebase live under the same roof. Louis likes the producers in London better, anyway. At least they keep up with English football. And Oli doesn't have to be his only friend.

Still the one always with him at backdoor smoking breaks, though. The best part is he always shares the cigarettes from his own pack, never disputing Louis's refusal to spare from his.

"Me bollocks are freezing over."

Louis laughs. "Middle of January and you're in fucking sweatpants."

And Oli joins, cigarette pulled from his lips. "It's toasty in the studio. I'm staying at this one girl I'm, um..." Takes another quick drag, blows it out. "I'm seeing this girl and her heater doesn't work for shit. You need to bury yourself in like, four blankets at night."

"Sleep in my place, it's empty."

"There's no pussy there."

"Yeah, H is in Japan."

Oli is a bit hesitant to laugh, though he does, taken aback. "Ouch."

He read it as an insult. Louis knows he didn't.

Of course it gets quiet after that. 

“What would you do if your girlfriend cut her tits off?”

Oli turns his head to Louis with a look of bewilderment. Ginger brows knitted together. His words are a slow tip-toe, like stepping around the tail of a sleeping beast. “You mean like… cancer?”

“No. That she wanted them off.”

Louis is quite correct in his politics and throws a mean punch, so naturally Oli handles the hypothetical with utmost care and consideration, and a cigarette brought up to his lips. Sparks are going off, his brain working on overdrive as his trainers scuff the gravel. Who Wants To Be a Millionaire final question. Oli wishes he could ask for a hint. “Well… she’s more than a pair of tits.”

Good answer. Louis takes a drag from his cigarette and blows out the smoke. Seems like the end of the discussion, and Oli takes a huff from his own stick.

Quiet for a moment.

“What if she was a man?”

And Oli’s sure, then, that this isn’t a lighthearted hypothetical. Louis’s pointed. And Oli connects the dots so fast he blows cover completely. “S’ nothing.” Came with a high pitch and a shrug. “Mm? I— I-It’s cool.” After he chuckles is when he takes a quick drag from his cigarette to shut himself up. 

But Louis doesn’t answer, just playing with his phone. 

And Oli leans over all comical, mumbling out the corner of his mouth with wide eyes. “Think I might be bi.” He snorts. “You know? So…!” 

Punchline. Oli breaks into a weird cackle, smack to Louis’s shoulder. Man on a wire, terrified of the fall.

Somehow it feels worse than the silence when Louis shares a chuckle too, and turns to him with a little shrug to say,

“I’m not.”

The punchline to a joke Oli didn’t realize Louis was telling all along. He was always more dry. A better comedian.

Oli doesn’t laugh.

  
  
  


"Ah! Shit."

Louis burns himself on the clay pot sitting in front of him, wincing as he brings his fingertip to his mouth to try and soothe the sting. Being served a scalding hot plate of food felt like a health code violation, but he immediately found it too snobby of himself to find fault in foreign culture. Fine, he thought. Big boy's gonna get over it. He shuffles in his booth seat and sits forward to stir his meal. The smell is delightful, admittedly. Pleasant colors in green and deep brown, a thick broth. But he can't get over it—

What… was it?

He sighs. Not the most proud as he pulls out his phone and opens the browser when he intended on leaving the meal a mystery. The menu, quite wonderfully, had no text at all to indicate what any of the meals were, not even in Japanese. A large, three-sided plastic menu displayed a variety of food Louis mostly found the same. Some things he recognized— sushi, skewers, teriyaki chicken. But he wanted to make a point to reject all matter of familiarity, and instead take a dive into the deep— and mostly uncomfortable—unknown.

There was one word he was somewhat sure of. So his thumbs got to work on the keyboard.

_mombane_

Press 'Go'

No, that wasn't it.

_motsunami_

Press 'Go'

No, that wasn't it either. Louis was beginning to panic, squinting down at his phone. Scratches his beard like it could jog his memory. He was desperate to give in. Mystery food— how could he possibly put it in his body with the possibility of meeting a wildly unpleasant taste in his mouth? This little man of sensitive palate couldn't even stomach the thought.

_notsuname_

Press 'Go'

 _Showing results for:_ **_motsunabe_ **

"Yesss."

Upon further research, the clay pot of stew sitting in front of Louis is actively cooking on the stand it sits on— which is, in fact, a portable stove. His immediate concern is when the meal itself is finished cooking, and he instinctively turns to find a waiter to complain to like the prissy little white man he is.

But what was the use? he quickly realized. He could barely communicate his order to the Japanese-speaking staff, having pointed to a picture on the menu and lifting his finger to indicate 'one'. _"Motsunabe, motsunabe"_ , they kept repeating. Smiling with a thumbs up. 

It's a hot-pot meat stew. Chicken, beef, pork, fish, cabbage, and scallions were among the roulette Louis was to expect, according to Google. Peering over into the bowl and poking around, he couldn't tell what it was among cooked, soggy cabbage leaves. How could he trust it? But he was beginning to sink into shame and embarrassment at how intolerant he was being— the very thing he set out to defeat.

Louis should've looked up what 'offal' meant. Chicken, beef, pork, and fish _offal_. 

He could only get past one bite of cow intestine before his hand slapped over his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut. 

_'Check, please,'_ he typed on Google Translate; English to Japanese.

  
  
  


"Oh no, there's only one bed, _bro_!"

"Like in— I get it! I get it!"

"Oh sick, you got those paper sliding doors! It's like a dojo, innit? Like, temples— you know what I mean? Me mind's just jumping to Kill Bill right now which is absolutely fucking stupid. Oh look, the bathroom's got a little sliding door as well. Now you don't have to watch me take a—"

"I have a window. Did you see? Look at this window."

Harry moved living accomodations again. From Tottori prefecture, population 500,000, to Yamagata prefecture, population 1 million. From a capsule-hotel-like apartment with a room that keeps only one foot of room from the mattress to the wall, to a tatami-style one in the mountains.

Louis's impressed. Very impressed. This time he can set down his luggage without completely blocking access to the kitchen. A kitchen— there's a proper one this time.

"Oh you've got a telly in here as well." Old, but larger than the last. 

Harry's busy skating across the room in his socks. Mindful, however, to spare Louis his utmost attention. "Yeah. I like to turn it on and just, like, have it on in the background sometimes," he tells him. "But not all the time. Because it gets trippy, I don’t understand anything. Makes me feel like I’m in a vortex."

"Did you hear about that thing in America? The polar vortex? The fucking south pole is in Chicago— you remember Chicago? What is that, New York?"

"Illinois."

"Fucking planet's coming apart," Louis muses, snooping around the charming little flat Harry's connections found him. "All these states are freezing over."

"Oh, like that movie! With Jake Gyllehnall. Something From Tomorrow.

"The Day After Tomorrow."

"Yeah, The Day After Tomorrow." Harry parks beside Louis, watching him squat and snoop through his tiny refrigerator. "God, he was so cute in that movie. But he _is_ still fit now."

"No way, he looks like shit now unless he’s got the beard."

Harry's wide eyed and appalled. " _No!_ "

"You seen Nightcrawler?"

"He was supposed to look scary there."

"Well he looked like shit." Louis opens a little bowl of rice and sniffs before handing it to Harry, who operates on instinct and heads into the kitchen. "And he doesn’t pull off the beard either."

"We’re not blaspheming daddy Gyllenhaal."

"Ryan Reynolds, Chris Evans, Tom Holland…" he offers. "Right there. Tom Holland is cute as well. Really cute."

Harry grumbles at the plastic utensils from where he stands by the kitchen counter. "Not that cute. He’s not that cute." Quick. "He has no lips. Actually, he’s ugly. I don’t like him, he’s overrated."

Here comes a big spoon. Tippy-toe so he can put his chin on his shoulder with his arms around his waist. "No twink could ever replace you, darling."

"Ha! I wish I was a twink. I’m old and ugly."

Louis stands back. "Oh Jesus and what am I? Deceased?" Walking off, existential. "Have I fallen off the gay scale? Is there no room for grown, scrawny, bearded—"

"You’ll always be a twink, because you’re quite small," Harry tells him, turning around to face him. And the topic seems of interest to him, having already tackled Louis's concern in the past. "You’re like a ripe twink," he's decided. "You get to be a daddy but the title, generally, still falls under twink. Like James McAvoy. Maaaybe Bruno Mars."

Louis makes like he's heading out the door. "Enjoy Japan." 

"Noooo! No, I'm sorry! I’m sorry, daddy!"

"Piss off!"

And so they wrestle and fiddle once Harry's reached Louis by the door, laughing and snorting until they're playing rough on the floor. "You’re just like Tom Hardy and Cillian Murphy! My sexy, _dangerous_ daddy! Al Pacino, huh?"

"Get off me face you're fucking _heavy_!"

Dinner is due at 5:30pm, and Harry is very punctual about his rituals. On the mattress on the floor— Louis feels odd eating on the ground. But he's removed from all complaints as he eats curry rice, cross legged on the sheets.

"You know that's Japanese, right?" Harry tells him from opposite him, lying down with his weight rested on his elbow, struggling to pick up dumplings with his chopsticks. "Foreign food _ooooo_ ~"

" _Yeah_ of _course_ ." Louis's quick to claim victory, fork digging into the orange rice bowl for a bite to his mouth. " _Mm!_ Mm. This is good."

"I know. Was gonna be my dinner."

It's important for Louis to insist on a better reaction— more enthusiasm. So he throws the line again, fishing for some praise. "Look at me, I'm eating Japanese food!"

"I know!"

Harry gives him a little smile, but he isn't satisfied. Out come the big guns, the story he'd been saving for the right moment. "And you know what else? I went to a Japanese restaurant today." He meets Harry's gaze with a smug grin.

While Harry holds skepticism in his. "Bullshit. By yourself?"

"Yes, all by me lonesome." Louis tells his rice, playing around without actually eating. "They didn't speak a lick of English so I had to gesture like an ape. But I got the job done of course. I had, um… this soup— this— Oi." Harry's gone when he looks up.

"I'm having a wee!" shouted from the bathroom with an open door.

"Where was I…"

"You had soup!"

"Yeah— no, it was um… stew. It came on a fucking stove and started cooking in front of me. Would've been impressive if I hadn't burnt me fucking finger. That spoiled it a bit for me."

"What did you order?"

"Um… mom… batsu?"

"Mom _batsu_?"

"Mon-something." Louis gets up and walks towards the kitchen. "Nami or tabi or something. It had cow intestine."

"Motsunabe! You had _motsunabe_?! No way, did you even make it past a bite?!"

"I ate the whole thing, you little shit!" He walks over to the garbage bin. "Chewy!"

"I'm impressed! Aw that's lovely. Well done, darling."

Good. Just the reaction Louis wanted.

"Getting over that dreadful picky palate of yours."

"Of course."

And he dumps the barely-eaten bowl of curry rice to join the garbage.

"See? I'm open, I'm tolerant." He might be telling that to himself as he lazily walks across the apartment. No real draft behind his words, so quiet when he goes on, "I'm not stubborn, I've got an open mind. You know… _change_. S' not a big deal… Doesn't matter to me one bit. Different shit or— you know. New things and all that, yeah?"

Peering his head into the bathroom, he's greeted with the sight of Harry standing before the bathroom sink.

"Having a wee, eh?"

Harry's organizing his many toiletries on the tiny countertop, no guilt when he states, simply, "It looked a bit messy. I did have a wee, though."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yeah, new things— And, um, speaking of new things…"

Louis doesn't appreciate that he's been ignored, eyes narrowed to mere slits. Told a lie for nothing. "What?" He walks over and starts grabbing the bottles Harry has on the sink and begins to inspect each one. He expected Harry to put up a fuss, but as he looms over him he's unbothered— and rightfully so. No need to scold when Louis's putting everything back in place.

"You haven't said anything about my latest development. It's _developed_ quite a lot since you were last here."

_Latest development._

It feels like a surge of electricity zapped to Louis's gut. He spritzes a bottle of perfume right into the mirror.

"...What?"

"My stache!"

Oh. "Oh! Oh yeah, yeah yeah! I noticed!" A weird little laugh. He turns around to have a look at Harry's work in progress. And Harry's keen to bend over and invade his personal space so he can see up close. And it's there— the light brown pubescent mustache of a 24-year-old man. Louis grins and gives him a pat on the cheek. "I'm proud of you baby, you've finally come into bloom."

And Harry must have a look at himself in the mirror, fingertips petting the feathery fur on his face. "Only took 24 fucking years. My mustache in particular is growing in quite nicely. I've got a bit of chest hair as well." And this he's eager to show Louis, so he takes off his white t-shirt and shoves his chest into his space again. 

It's more than welcome. There's something about Harry's enthusiasm at his growing body hair that gives Louis a sense of ease. And it's for the wrong reasons, he knows right away. But the priority is joining Harry in his celebration, so he'll have to punish himself later. "Ooo," he says, running his hand over the sparse hair growing in the center of Harry's chest. "That's some good chest hair."

"Right? Fucking finally."

This is very good, he thinks in an inappropriate thought again. This time shameless. This time relieved. This time finding comfort in his hairy boyfriend. His hairy

boy.

"Little boy's finally a man, eh?"

Harry doesn't answer. The wrong course of action is to turn around and face the toiletries— which Louis does, cursing himself for taking an awkward moment and tilting it towards the wrong impression. The only thing to pierce the silence is the sound of rose water being sprayed into the air. 

Luckily, Harry's decided to follow suit.

"Oof." And he hums, little smile. "I love this... This, the line in the middle." He shows Louis's reflection in the mirror. Louis nods with a smile, leaving Harry to inspect himself. "I haven't got much of a beard but the mustache is— look at her go!" He giggles. "I'm never shaving. I hate shaving. This is the best." He's walked away from his reflection now, facing away towards his towel to sort of suspend himself.

"Yeah! Yeah…" Louis takes a whiff at some tiny bottle of, "What is this? Moisturizer. With Vitamin E and Aloe extract." And he puts it back. "Yeah— Yeah, shaving's a fucking pain. I can't be bothered meself."

"I, um… I think it's quite lovely, actually."

Harry's mumbling. Louis looks up into the mirror right away. Somewhat intense, a sudden heat in his eyes when he looks at the back of Harry's head. "...Shaving?"

"No." Of course not. "No, body hair. Just, like… it's so natural. You know? Like, everything in nature grows so much, and that's… good. It's nice."

Louis's looking down at his knuckles, palms flat on the bathroom countertop.

"Do you know what I mean? Does that make sense? Like, girls with bushes and armpit hair— that's how God wanted it. You know?"

Louis turns his head right to see Harry's mermaid tattoo in his face, Harry's finger over her pubic hair. And Louis doesn't know what to make of it. He doesn't let himself. "Yeah, yeah…." So he smiles. "Bush is good!"

A sparkle in Harry's eyes that Louis can't deny. "Bush is great!"

Bush is great. Louis presses mute and lets his mind ring hollow, Harry's statement of no further meaning. He's a hairy lad, and he likes it. Doesn't every man? Sure they do. That Youtube history means

nothing. Not at all. Not without the symptoms. Not when Louis's big headed enough to fancy himself a doctor.

Louis doesn't know why he stays in the bathroom snooping around long after Harry slides closed the shoji door, leaving to finish his dinner. He has a lot of skincare products, a lot of sheet masks. Spraying some cologne on the back of his hand, Louis catches his reflection and fixes his fringe, pats down his ginger beard. Trackies and a black tank top, slim arms. A twink, he thinks. A tiny grimace. He sprays Tom Ford on his wrist next and has a whiff. So familiar. Doesn't know why he bothered. He grabs another bottle, ready for sample #3 on the opposite wrist.

But it's women's perfume. Louis has to smell it twice, face frozen like he's preventing something else. 

_"You think I'm a fucking idiot? Making me fucking sick— Don't touch me. Right, you fucking stink, you stink like Taylor's cheap shit perfume."_

_"It's not hers!"_

_"Then who's is it?"_

Louis's chest freezes.

_"Oi, you fucking heard me. Who the fuck else were you with tonight?"_

_"N...N-Nobody…"_

_"You had some bitch over?"_

_"No!"_

_"Then who the_ **_fuck_ ** _am I smelling off you?!"_

Blue eyes vivid, crystal against reddish dark circles. "Darling."

"Yeah?" called out from the bed.

"Where'd you buy this?"

After a near minute, Harry has a peek into the bathroom. "What?"

Louis shows him the bottle.

"Oh, that. I, um… I bought that with me from back home, actually." And he walks inside, joining Louis's reflection beside him. There in his boxer briefs, stripped to his skin everywhere else. "Do you like it? It's like, cocoa-ish…?"

Chocolate.

"But not like, milk chocolate. But it's quite sweet."

And vanilla.

 _"I can fucking smell some little cunt off you, you fucking liar! That's not what you smelled like when you left home! Think I'm fucking stupid, do ya?! Eh?! Who the_ **_fuck_ ** _did you have over?!"_

_"Nobody!"_

_"You're fucking lying to me!"_

_"N-No I'm_ **_not_ ** _!!"_

"It’s always been my favorite. I've had it for ages."

"This was your perfume that night."

Harry gets a look in his eyes when he's caught off guard, guilty and cornered and looking to escape with a lie as his sword. But it isn't there when he asks, "What?"

Louis doesn't feel like he's speaking at all. His memory comes in an oratory, pictures turned to words dropped one by one. Never looking away from his wrist, and the bottle of perfume holding credit for the buzzkill. "It was in 2012," he murmurs. "And you smelled like girl’s perfume. And we had a big fight."

Eye contact with Harry in the mirror. Until Harry pulls back with a chuckle. "That's some memory you have! Something you smelled 7 years ago? I don't remember that! Jeez."

"It was New Year's with Taylor."

There it is. Harry’s face drops, and he turns around to start adjusting his towels on the rack like he's busy. Louis faces him but gives him space, lower back pressed against the sink.

"I thought you’d been with another girl," he tells him, unsure of what he hopes to accomplish. "But you were at the house first when I got back, on your computer. You showered, you was in your… You— You'd put the perfume on at home. Didn't you?"

Harry's mumbling at the wall. "... Jesus, Lou, that was such a long time ago."

"Darling, why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

 _"I-I don't— N—! I'm sorry! I'm_ **_sorry_ ** _!! D-Don't— Don't leave m-me!!_ **_Louis_ ** _!!"_

"That it was your perfume and not some girl's. That you weren't with anyone that night and you came straight home. I—" he chuckles, a bit uneasy. "I wouldn't have yelled at you, thought you was cheating. It was such a bad fight, I was fucking horrible."

"I don't care, okay— Why do you care, all of a sudden? Let’s just forget about it." 

Harry never turns around. Rigid like it hurts to move, breathing so stunted his back barely twitches. All wrong, the whole sight.

And that bothers Louis enough. More than enough.

"Alright." He resigns with the tiniest snow white flag of surrender, and places the perfume bottle back. "Alright...." 

Nothing gained, nothing lost. Louis lectures himself on reading between the lines and how to avoid it, reminding. Hindsights have been tricky.

So he shrugs himself off, big sigh and a hard rub over his face with his hands. Hands dropped down. 

Reset. Go. 

"Teach me how to work the toilets here, would you? I want that little spray that goes in your ass."

That gets Harry to look over his shoulder. "It’s over your ass, Louis."

"That's what I meant."

"It’s not an enema."

"No, I know."

"Technology isn't there yet."

It's impressive what the toilet _can_ do anyway. Louis cheers when Harry demonstrates at the push of a button— a tiny spray of water shooting up from inside the toilet. 

"This must be great for pregnant women who can't reach their pussies anymore, eh?"

"Oh, that's right!"

"Right?"

"Yeah…They— they deserve nice things like that...."

He would've cheered, too, for how it kept their spirits from turning sour at the visit of long-buried context, and the insight it meant to deliver.

  
  


Funny thing about security blankets. Adults are decided on rejecting pastel fleece and cotton blend in the night to tame irrational anxiety. Over the counter works just fine. No baby stuff— knock it off. But the reality is pathetic in a tender sort of way. Longing. A 3am playback of every mistake ever made, a 1am paralysis in crippling loneliness, a 4am insomnia plague for the trauma patient. Things of empty beds. And coldness. If only there were an extra blanket, a separate heat to hold. One to ease the shivering soul.

Harry thinks he never wakes up Louis when he leaves bed for the gym at 5am. What's a big spoon to do? He lies. And he longs.

Today, for some reason or another, he doesn't play pretend.

"There goes me little gym bunny."

Even in the dark Louis can make out the silhouette, and the common sense that's aware of Harry's morning routine. Cheek to the pillow, still at the edge of slumber.

"Off you go..."

"Off I go!" Harry giggles stupid, hushed like he's trying not to wake Louis.

Louis's still under the weight of jetlag. It comes and goes every time he visits: awake in the middle of the night, or clocking out at midday. He's quite tired this morning. 5:10am, the sky still freckled with stars. And Louis, he's turned on his stomach, reaching out with weak grabby hands and a sleepy groan. Then he drops it, propped on his elbows. "Off to the gym?"

"Nah, just a jog. You need a membership and I'm, um… you know, a _gaijin_ ~" Harry squeezes into his leggings one foot at a time. "Ugh, I miss the gym in London."

"Yeah? ...What do you do there?" Louis's voice so butchered and dry.

"Um…Well, I switch. There's um…the treadmill, the bike, free weights… I do a bit of everything."

"No yoga?"

"No, not… It's in a separate studio. Yoga's a bit useless."

Louis's got his eyes open and staring at the darkest part of the room now. Not a sound as his gears turn, processing a product on the automated setting. How could it be deliberate? His subconscious slips right through his sleeping guard. "What do you wanna look like?"

"What?" Harry turns on a nearby lamp, making the room hazy with an orange glow. 

It pulls the curtain that left Louis anonymous and brave enough to play interviewer. Oh, he looks tired. Bags so dark they're maroon. How can he have the mind to have so much to say? Why? "I mean, you trying to bulk up, or…?" He's shied a bit, not liking the sudden podium. A smart man would shut up. "You know, you got anyone you wanna look like— like body goals, or summat?"

"Body goals." Harry chuckles. "Um… No. Not really."

Louis eyes him, his anatomy underneath a gray cotton shirt and black leggings. Thick, well built. Broad shoulders and the teensiest hips. "But you are quite fit. You know, you've got more muscle than me. A lot more. What, was that an accident?"

"No…" Harry fiddles with the shorts in his hands that are next to put on, his beanie, sneakers, and coat waiting elsewhere. "I don't know." He seems just as puzzled by the sudden questionnaire. But he's got a bit of a weakness: attention. In reality, Harry loves to talk about himself should the right subject present itself. This one isn't so bad. And the journalist this time is his most trusted other half. So Harry holds out his right arm, bending it to flex the ample bicep and show off to Louis. Little smile. "Looks good, right?"

Oh, that's sexy. Louis chuckles. "Yeah. Looks fucking amazing, love."

Amazing.

Amazing.

Amazing.

What awful motive behind his inquiry. He'll deny it, he'll set it all aside. He's made of stone, always in control. Wrong or right can take a backseat.

Because Louis's getting up. Compelled in uncharacteristic vacancy. Just wanna feel him up, he thinks. Nothing more. Harry is pending, of course. A little smile when Louis's finally popped all his stiff joints in the walk towards him. Soft caress to his cheek, gazes meeting proper.

"Good morning." A quick kiss. 

Harry loves that, delighted to peck him back with a soft, "Good morning."

And they just stand there, content with the close proximity. Louis taking his body in. His pecs, his arms, his shoulders, his bulge. Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. "Well that's good, that's good." He follows Harry's line of conversation too late. Hands on his waist. "You should feel good." And he asks his tummy, "Do you like it?"

Harry gets that goofy smile, making a face. "I mean… yeah. Sure. I think."

"Well everyone gets a bit insecure, yeah?" This time told to his face. Soft, strong. "That's all."

"Mm."

Louis raises his brows.

"Yeah." And Harry laughs, gripping his shorts so tight his knuckles are white. 

Playing super sleuth while half asleep turned out to be more of a threat, manipulative. He won't admit it, eyes closing once he's back to the mattress.

"You should see the girls where I go— like, where I went, in LA."

Louis's on his hands and knees when his eyes spring open.

"In LA they were, like… _ripped_. Absolute goddesses, they look so lovely."

Bones like jello, heart racing with adrenaline and betraying his perfect goodnight. Closure. Relief.

"Actually _they_ might be body goals, I— I wish I had their dedication! You know?"

Louis grabs his phone just to crawl away to the end of the mattress.

"I think, no— yeah, I— I do wanna get...just a teensie bit bigger, I think. Yeah. I like the look. Something about it… I don't know…. Yeah." And he laughs. 

Louis's typing away at his phone, but recognizes the insecurity in Harry's voice. It's awful, devastating every time Louis holds accountability. Wide awake, he offers. "Oh buff girls, yeah. It's sick that they like, do that innit?"

His phone is too bright. LED laser beams as he stares at the screen.

"It's supposed to be a man's thing."

"I'm working on, um… my chest right now. Upper body, generally."

Louis just turns around and looks up, sitting again. And it isn't a real response. "You're perfect. Just like this."

Harry snorts, dropping his shorts on the floor. "This won't last forever, darling. So enjoy it while you can."

Punch in the gut. Louis's eyes go back to his phone, brow quivering before looking back up at Harry. "If you think I'll ever stop you're out of your mind." 

He meant it in another way. So far beyond this casual conversation it's a conclusion to a great, new calamity. The horror of not knowing. The cataclysm to Louis that is not

knowing.

Or what to do.

Is the sand castle a masterpiece or did the tide wash it away?"

"Yeah… Give it time."

What does that mean? What the fuck does that mean? "I love you, Harry," he tells the phone screen. 

"Aw I love you too, honey!"

Closing the tab on his browser that reads,

_muscular women - Google search results_

Louis's halfway to lying down when Harry swerves lanes.

"Want a quickie?"

"A quickie?"

Harry turns off the lights, and moves over to Louis. He holds himself over him with his left hand propped on the mattress beside Louis' thigh, on his knees on either side of him. And his right hand works quick to squeeze Louis's cock through the sheets. 

"Ooo a quickie!"

And Harry grins, bottom lip beneath his teeth though Louis can't see. A little giggle. And then he pulls down his briefs until they're off. It doesn't take much attention from Harry to get Louis's cock firm, so running his hand up and down his inner thigh makes his member an appetizing sight within seconds. Louis watches Harry, his shadow, how he eyes the way it's thrusted up towards him. Holding back the urge to touch him just to tease. Until Harry breaks, and starts stroking him with a delighted giggle and a hard squeeze. "Fucking love your cock," Harry moans. "I get my favorite protein shake." And he swallows his dick to the base.

This is the best. Louis throws his head back. Brain turned to mush, tips of his toes curling as he brings a fist to Harry's hair. "Ffuuucck…" Pushing down, pulling up.

"Mmh you're so big, makes me so hungry…" Harry moans with his lips to the tip of his cock, jerking him off at the bottom. And then he takes him whole again down his throat. He always sucks him unbelievably hard, especially at the head. Drinking, really, the precum that just pours out of him. But that's not the best part. Louis's mind keeps flashing it in neon lights:

 _Dirty talk._

Louis can't remember the last time. 

It's an unexpected treat in its most innocent context. But in Louis's mind this is the sign of the hour— of months, maybe years spent wishing. "Oh shit." 

"What?"

Doesn't realize he's staring a bit wide-eyed and hazy, hands at his sides. A smile. His vision's adjusted just a bit. Enough to see that Harry's just doe eyes as he jerks him off. 

_'It's like you're your old self again.'_ "You're so fucking sexy, babe."

And they both laugh. Harry's electric, Louis quickly realizes. He expects a quickie in its usual definition, but Harry skips straight to third base. "Want your little gym bunny to hop on your fat cock?"

And Louis can't stand it, cheeks burning crimson like an amateur all over again. "You're _horny_." He can't help his brute awe.

"So fucking horny," Harry giggles, breathless as he climbs on top of Louis and stradles him. "Dunno why." So heavy, grinding his hips with enough force it's got Louis's body rocking up and down on the mattress. "Oh I just want you so _bad_..." His voice is desperate enough to prove it. And he bends down to start kissing him furiously, cupping his face in his hands. But he moves it away soon enough.

And Louis hears ripping. Between Harry's kisses he asks, "What are you doing?"

Pulling back and sitting upright, slutty like he loves it best. And he says, "Like they do in the pornos."

Louis quickly realizes that Harry's ripping his tights apart until part of his ass is free. It was obvious enough when he felt his cock pressing against Harry's hole while his hands rubbed the tights on his thighs. And he laughs. "Oh shit! You're—"

Ripping apart enough for his crack. But a perk of his ass sends them ripping wider across, until his ass sits halfway free from black spandex, though his cock is still snug and hidden away.. "Fucking cheap leggings," he giggles. "That was easy!"

"That's so fucking hot..." Louis can't help himself, hands reaching back to grab Harry's ass and squeeze, pulling apart so he can thrust his cock up against his gaping hole. "God, you're so fucking hot…"

What a blessing.

Louis forgot how fiery and uninhibited sex was between them. Filthy. For so long it felt like an algorithm dominated it, careful and planned. Louis didn't want to think he patched up Harry's affliction for good last week, but it was impossible not to draw a connection. That only served to shoot him further up cloud 9, eager to take a ride in this newly restored dynamic of old days.

What were they even talking about before? Louis fixed it. He's deemed himself a genius.

Harry groans on top of him, writhing on his lap as they kiss messy and loud. Handsy, hands everywhere. Harry has a fire in him for whatever remarkable reason, but Louis knows the place his own shaking hands and racing heart first came to be. It serves a good purpose now, though. Louis's head is spinning from how turned on he is, desperate to get inside Harry. Obsessive, frantically thrusting the head of his cock against Harry's gaping hole.

Harry's good at picking up cues. He drools over his fingertips and reaches back to finger himself with a groan, head back and body rocking onto his finger. Then they're back to his mouth, and this time he drops his weight forward on his hand. So Louis can watch. Sucking on his fingers, one then two. Then up to Louis's lips where he gets a taste, then back to his hole. Just the rim, just to get it dripping on Louis's cock. 

It's not an entirely foreign experience. Just so optimistic, fantastic, making Louis's face burn red and damp as he squeezes Harry's ass apart and keeps pushing the tip in, out, up his crack, down again. The riding is expected, the teasing is expected. Their perfect script.

But Harry made an addition.

"You like that wet pussy, don't you?"

Well, he said that.

It's a chalkboard wiped clean. Backspace to a blank page. Louis's vision blurs until Harry's a shadow again. And he doesn't think. 

"Stick it in me, you know you keep my cunt loose enough…"

Emergency stop.

"Always got me so stretched out, Lou. Your little fucktoy, aren't I?"

At least he's still hard, groaning when his cock slides into Harry's hole. He's got his eyes squeezed shut like it won't matter, hands on Harry's waist. And he rides him, marvelous equestrian. But he promised Louis a bunny, so he lifts his hips and slams down hard, over and over. Louis feels like he could keep his dick in him forever, but his mind betrays him in an unwelcome panic.

Because Harry's voice gets higher.

"That's your pussy, Lou…"

And higher.

" _Mmh!_ Feels s-so fucking good in my pussy…!"

So high. Louis can't see a thing, just the heavy shadow that keeps slamming its body down on his cock. Bouncing, curls swishing on this silhouette. Leaning that body upright and running hands to cup at the chest. Squeeze, bring them together as whimpers and squeaks fill the room.

" _Mmhh…_!"

This shadow.

"U-Ungh, ungh…!"

Doesn't sound like him.

"Oh _fuck_ m-my pussy…!"

It doesn't sound like him.

" _Unghh!_ "

It doesn't sound like Harry.

" _Ungh, ungh, ungh, ungh…!!_ "

Louis can't stay hard. He can feel himself further and further from inside as his cock begins to

lose interest.

"Shit."

Louis pushes Harry off and flips him onto his back. Panting, panicked. He rushes to the lamp and turns it on, hand over his cock and squeezing until he's wringing the poor thing. But it works, hard enough to fool a sex-drunk Harry barely paying attention. Just a bit whiny.

"What are y—"

"Wanna see your face."

Harry likes that. He giggles when Louis's on his knees beside his head, hands gripping his curls so he stays in place right beneath his cock. Hard, finally. Harry's gorgeous, lips flushed and eyes glassy, cheeks hot pink. But Louis needs to cum. He has to.

"Wanted your nice creamy shake, didn't you?"

Louis doesn't realize he keeps talking so Harry doesn't. Harry just moans, high but lower than before. "Want your fucking load, daddy…"

"Yeah? Stick out your tongue like a good little slut."

And it works. Harry's quiet. The only sound to echo in the apartment is the wet slapping of Louis's fist abusing his uncooperative member. Harry's face is all he wants. That glimmer, his shameless grin with his tongue out. He worried, and worried in vain.

It's enough. It's always gonna be enough.

"That's it… That's it, baby..."

A nice thick spurt after spurt of cum right onto Harry's tongue and the inside of his cheek. Louis trembles, hips buckling forward, barely able to breathe like he ran a marathon and beat the odds. I did it, he thinks as he watches Harry kiss the head of his cock, letting some of the cum run down his face. Louis cleans it up for him. And Harry swallows, like he wanted. Protein shake— what a guy, he's just incredible.

Louis smiles and bends down for a kiss, breathing hard enough he has to pull back to breathe at all. Then it's logical what comes next, reaching for Harry's crotch. "Lemme do you."

"No wait—"

"What?"

"Can't, I'm gonna be late."

Just like that, Harry is speeding away and hopping to his pile of clothes. 

Louis's brow is furrowed, still panting, still high."Late?"

"My run."

Louis folds his legs out from under him and lays them flat, stretched out and naked, holding himself back up on his elbows. He's watching Harry dress himself at full velocity, though it likely only seems so fast in his post-orgasm fog. "You're running in the street, that's not an appointment."

He's fully dressed. Sneakers at the door. "I have a schedule! I'll be back with brekkie."

"You gonna buy me breakfast with your bare ass out clapping under those shorts?"

"They don't clap." Harry tries to do a maneuvered shake and squat.

_Clap!_

"They do!"

Harry's good to have a laugh with like that. He runs over for a quick kiss to Louis's lips, then merrily leaves out the door.

And it's quiet. And cold. 

What happened? 

No, nothing happened.

What happened?

No, nothing happened.

The darkness of the room looms like a magnifying glass over every truth Louis skims over. Every explanation and elephant, unbearable in their presence. In their insistence. They demand the recognition that makes them a force Louis can't deny. When they say that

that limp dick 

is only the beginning.

  
  
  


Harry prefers Louis doesn't go to the studio anymore. Paranoia plants accusatory seeds so he was forced to be honest, and lay his embarrassment as the sole motive behind his request. Louis had to understand. He didn't want to pick a particularly domestic fight in front of the songwriting strangers in the studio. 

"You gonna stay in the, um, apartment? Want me to call you a taxi?"

"Actually I think I'm just gonna explore. You know, by meself."

"You're gonna get lost!"

"Google Maps. Boom. I know the address to your apartment."

"Okay… Here, have some money. Do you know how much they—"

"Yeah, saved a pic."

"Mm. Well, okay. Text me."

After Louis gets off the train ride from Fukushima back to Yamagata, Louis ends up getting lost about every 10 minutes. And every time, he opens Google Maps to find his way back to the apartment halfway just to turn into a different street he'll get lost in, then repeat. But purchasing goods was easy enough, shopkeepers not much for conversation with the pasty white man taking forever to hand the right bills at the register. He buys three keychains, a hoodie, and some Japanese manga for the sake of having a souvenir.

Japan in winter is a wonderland, so he doesn't mind being lost in translation. Everything is so clean and quiet, everyone with some place to go. The more crowded areas made him nervous until he realized no one made eye contact with any passerby. It was a rural city, but still a busy city. On a particularly long walk he found himself at the center of what might be the backbone of the Yamagata economy, the sparse crowds gray, black, and white. Louis's happy he wore black. And wasn't too tall. Blending into the crowd felt more like being absorbed into a single unit, making for a comforting, less lonely sense of anonymity. 

But the best part was the beach, just a short walk from the apartment. Yunohama. It was already dusk, and Louis was alone. And he just looked out into the cold dead sea with his hands in his coat pocket. It reminded him of English beaches. And that made him feel lonely. It was a good feeling. He set his bags on the sand and took a seat, the longest time he'd been in one place all day. Had Harry been to this beach? He wondered. Maybe it would be romantic. It felt depressing being there. Harry's been one to like that sort of thing.

That made Louis miss Harry. And it made him want to go home.

Just before nightfall he walks his way back to the apartment, all the while texting Harry who had sent him 7 unread messages since he left for the recording studio in Fukushima. Louis had the phone set to vibrate— he's sorry. And Harry forgives him by the time the moon is out, and Louis's legs are ready to fall apart. 

_Where did you go?_

_Don't know I kind of went everywhef_

_Went to the beach, it was really nice_

_Bought some shit_

_I'm zzzzz_

_Did you get lost?_

_I got sleepy bumhead . Jetlag_

_I'm t the apartment. Want me to meet you at the train?_

_No, I'm taking a taxi._

_They want me to go out for drinks. Do you mind if I go? I'd be back really late. I can say no._

_Nooo go with them. Have fun I'll be sleeping soI won't miss you_

_:(_

_Kiddinggg haha_

_I'll tet you._

_*text_

_Don't forget to text me back I'll be angry if you don't._

_I'll text you big baby_

_I love you._

_Love you_

_Byebye I'll text you later <333 _

_Bye love :) <3333 _

There always has to be one extra 3 or Harry will get insecure and keep texting more proclamations of love, until he's certain he isn't getting dumped. Or, in a less innocuous outcome, Harry will get cold and short on words, short on affection in a sabotage like he has to end the relationship first. Little things you pick up on over the years. And Harry says Louis never does any chores.

Physically, however, Harry really does do it all. Louis still tries to help out anyway. Harry didn't get a chance to tidy up this morning on account of professional duties. It's a mess. Louis's clothes are scattered around the floor, hair brushes and knick knacks and luggage out of place, and dishes left crusty in the sink. The garbage bin is too full. No one's done the laundry.

"Jesus how do you do all this shit in the morning…"

Dishes clean with pruny fingers. Everything in place. Garbage out— hopefully he threw it in the right dumpster. Time for laundry. 

Like the last apartment, the washing machine doesn't have a room of its own. It does, however, have detergent Harry bought in English. Kudos to Harry, he thinks, carrying his pile of clothes over before dropping them on the floor. Laundry is no problem for the eldest son of a single mother working late. In the whites go, and off Louis goes to watch television.

Only problem is he can't find the remote control. He must dig. And he digs, and digs in every spotless corner a TV remote couldn't possibly land. Behind the garbage bin, behind the washing machine, behind the dryer, under the sheets.

A-ha— under the _bed_ , the only place unchecked. And a suspicious bump he hadn't noticed catches his eye immediately. Louis smirks, sigh of relief that without a doubt he's got it right. Up the mattress goes.

"Ah, fuck."

Harry's dirty clothes.

"Why would you—"

No matter. He squats and pulls them out. So many whites from just a glance at the pile, goddamnit. Harry's socks, white t-shirts, a white sweater. And then…

Beige. Navy blue. White. Pink and yellow stripes. Pink and white flowers. Green and yellow flowers. Just yellow. Just green.

Louis hadn't seen cotton panties and bralettes like these since his sisters were teens. And he knows Harry's body enough to know these pairs are his size. 

To know the smell of his body wash and sweat. 

Stretched out at the crotch from the bulge of his bits. 

They're not sexy, not special. They're the cheap briefs that come in packs of 6 at Asda. And they're a secret, used on the daily and hidden from a lurking foe. From Louis. To protect and keep safe from whatever hostility Harry expected.

The color on Louis face drains until he's a shell, a decoy left to hide what's real. Because it can't feel anything at all. And it'll never make a sound. And Louis can say 

he's no foe. It doesn't bother him. And he doesn't think anything awful at all. Certainly not, 

_'It's real. It's really happening.'_

Did you think he would?

He slides it back— how respectul. How perfect. Gold star sticker, top spot on the leaderboard.

A spot in front of the washing machine is where he sits, to watch the water swirl. He'd put on his headphones to mute the racket. 

But he doesn't. He doesn't think anything at all. Blue eyes barely blinking. Stomach churning like the clothes drowning in detergent and being stripped clean of the filth.

Harry doesn't text him all night.

It's 3am when the door opens, and a naked body perfumed with Tom Ford and sake slips into bed. Face to his chest, arms holding tight.

"Kissy…"

Knowing Louis would be awake to leave kisses to the top of his head. Not so cold anymore.

  
  
  


Day 3 in the afternoon smells like breakfast food. McDonald's— cold from the morning buy. Louis's noisy with all the paper bags rustling on a kitchen table that requires they sit on the floor. He sips on his coffee too loud with a peering side-eye at Harry, who sits to his left on the other side of the table. But Harry doesn't nag as usual. Doesn't say much. 

He hasn't said anything all day unless asked. 

"Did you find out the name of that comic book I bought? The, um… the manga. Manga, is it?"

"Yeah."

"I bought it cos the cover looked cool. Did I buy a good one?"

"It's in Japanese, love. You can't read it anyway."

"Yeah but the pictures look cool. The art, you know what I mean?"

"It's called Kongo Bancho. It's about street fighters. Like, gangs."

"Is it any good?"

"I wouldn't know, honey."

Always polite, just preoccupied without any task. At last he is, though. Hair in a headband, oversized shirt from a thrift buy. Louis's in sweats, no shirt, keeping a restless eye on Harry, who's hunched with elbows on the table. He writes in the journal meant for lyrics and melodies that arrive like a divine message. It's a full page of black ink in minutes.

Well, maybe Louis wants attention. Maybe it's making him uneasy that Harry won't say a damn thing. He chews everything in his mouth into a puree and overthinks just as much. Brainstorm. It isn't his most clever execution, but his tongue has a mind of its own.

"How was the— the… Um, how was it?"

"Hm?" 

Louis takes a bite of the soggy pancake he holds in his hand like a burger. "The, um…the club. Or pub, or whatever."

Harry keeps writing. "It was alright."

"Just alright?"

"Well I got drunk."

"Karaoke?"

"Just drinks."

His soft tone is a ruse. So obvious Louis has to wonder if he thinks he's fooling him. He sighs loud, obnoxious. Letting Harry know he's no good an actor around him. But that's as far as he'll let it be known. With a mouth full of hash brown, he's cheery when he asks, "Where we going today?"

"Oh I, um…"

This is a surprise— Harry seems to animate, engaged.

"I called my translator over. She's gonna take you to look around, um… like, the shrines in Kyoto. It's a long trip, actually."

A wrinkle forms between Louis's brows, quickly erased. "Alone?"

Harry's gaze is empty in the eye contact. And Louis doesn't like that he wants to look away. He does, though. The food looks unappetizing now. Harry goes on with his mask firmly placed over his face. "Yeah, I've got some… business shit to take care of later. Jeff's gonna call me on Skype, he's got his people, you know…"

"Oh."

"Sorry, I know it sucks. But the shrines, like… I figured that might make up, for it. They're gorgeous and you've never been, so I thought…"

"No it's cool." Louis 's looking up, and for the first time all day he recognises sincerity. That familiar, lovely green. And dimples— oh, Louis sighs in relief.

"Yeah? You excited?"

"Yeah! Yeah, sounds great." He chuckles before taking a sip of cold, unpleasant coffee. "Mm, yeah. Absolutely. When's she coming over?"

"20 minutes."

"Oh." He laughs again, watching Harry go back to writing in his journal, this time turning the page. "Should've woken me up earlier, love."

"Sorry." Harry tells it to the paper, closing the door in Louis's face again.

And 7 minutes pass.

Louis can't stand it anymore. It's clear to him when just looking at his food makes him want to gag. Frustrated enough he lets his own demeanor tell the truth. Because apparently, Harry will not. So he says it, valiant. "What's up with you today?"

"Nothing."

Louis sneers. "Nothing."

"What?"

They stare at each other this time, steps away from a glare. Louis can't help but brace for an argument, but he can see through Harry like he's paper thin. And that's no condition for the blow of a fight. He holds composure, careful with the touch of his words. "You know you never texted me last night." Rushing, "I'm not mad, obviously. Just wondering what… that was all about."

"Nothing, I just…" Harry chuckles, pausing his writing. And he sighs. And he starts doodling a tiny spiral. And it's odd, not right. A real lie. "I just… forgot."

Louis braces for silence again, reaching for a bacon strip he forgot he already ate.

"It's funny."

He turns his head. "What is?"

Harry purses his lips, gaze still like an empty pond. No fish. No life. Pen in his hand, ink on paper with no purpose. "I don't even know why I have a phone. I haven't gotten any calls or texts from anyone who isn't… getting fucking paid to. Or isn't you."

Well, Louis doesn't know what to say. It's an odd, ominous sort of crossroad. Harry isn't there at all. There's just a gust of harsh wind, and a mumble musing like a spilled glass of milk.

"Nobody calls me or texts me, like… ever. I don't answer back, because… I'm just busy. I’d rather not talk. But, when I do want to talk, no one ever answers. Right, no one... No one wants to see me when I'm lonely. And when they do I can tell they're, like... fucking disappointed, that I'm not the person they wanted me to be. I can fucking see it in their face every time. If I'm not drunk I'm fucking boring, I don’t talk, I always leave early. Like... I'm just a fucking nice guy, aren't I? I’m nice and fucking polite…. And that’s all. I’m decent. Who the fuck am I to anyone? I’m just, like... the rich friend who was in a boyband. Who never shows up for the invitation, never wants to see anyone. Oh, I'm a dick then. I'm, like… Oh, I'm a snob, a dickhead, too good for anyone. I’m no fucking fun. And I dress like shit, like an old man, a fucking clown. And that’s all I am is just this… either nice or selfish, ugly person. And I say stupid shit no one ever forgets."

Harry's words fall like a dripping faucet on a bathroom sink. That spiral in black ink ends up covering over half the page, striking through drafted song lyrics like they didn't matter in the first place, and the time spent was always a waste. 

Louis doesn't know what to do.

"Someone say something to you last night, Harry?"

"Forget it. I'm just thinking out loud." And Harry slaps his palms over his face to rub around frantic before bringing them down, blowing out a heavy breath, and yelling out a weak, "Ah!" Some whine comes out like he means to be funny suddenly. "Excuse me."

And so Louis does.

If he was a fool he'd believe that Harry tore at the seams and exposed his wound for proper care. Care from Louis. But that only would've been true if Louis got the chance to really talk anything through to him.

Except, he had his chance.

So why didn't he? 

Bark, bark, bark.

The only bite this dog took was at a McGriddle.

  
  
  


"Does it have to be in Japanese...or?"

"Oh! Um… No, English."

"English?"

"You have to say your wish in your head, so for you it has to be English."

"Oh yeah, yeah! Okay, cool. Um…"

Louis's trying to find the right way to write it without giving his most cherished secret away.

_'Please let me and my lover stay together forever.'_

And how to write vertically on the narrow piece of 4 inch paper. Which proved to be more difficult than any other part of the ritual before and thereafter.

Eriko took him to a rock. Enmusubi Enkiri-ishi, an area within the Yasui Konpiragu shrine that holds the power to either strengthen a relationship(enmusubi) or put an end to it(enkiri). Louis found it logical the former would come of use to him. Shrines known to bring wealth or success during exams would likely not. 

It was exciting— after leisurely walks through Kyoto's shrines and shops, an opportunity was offered to him by Harry's translator, Eriko, to pray to a shrine himself. She's been thrilled about her own first visit to Yasui Konpiragu, full of trivia and gazes of awe at beautiful ancient structures and gardens, and geishas wandering about too. Truthfully, Louis had been itching to finally engage in ritual prayer to seal the trip— the full experience with utmost respect.

His confidence beamed when Eriko gives him the thumbs up to proceed. However, it occurred to him, standing there with his written wish…

that he was, in fact, performing a sacred Japanese ritual that put his relationship on the line.

Why did he think he was capable of not screwing up something like _that_?

The rock exudes power. It's a 4 foot tall boulder with a two foot tall hole at its base, and from top to bottom it's been covered with the wishes of hundreds of visitors; white vertical strips of paper stuck to its surface, waiting for Louis's to join in their prayer. 

And he stands there, eyebrows raised for the faintest grimace, overwhelmed by the power he's put himself at the mercy of.

"Now go in, think of your wish, come out, bow in front of the shrine, and then crawl back out to me."

Crawl in, wish. Crawl out, bow. Crawl back in. "Got it. Okay… here I go."

"Yay!"

Louis feels like a kid crawling through the plastic McDonald's playground— if the plastic were freezing. He then decides it's too disrespectful to let the humorous memory linger from inside a sacred rock. He's got one hand out the other end of the rock before he remembers. "Shit." Covering his mouth. "Sorry." Louis crawls backward and closes his eyes, dropping his head.

_'Please let me and my lover stay together forever.'_

Only once?

_'Please let me and my lover stay together forever. Please let me and my lover stay together forever. Please let me and my lover stay together forever.'_

Just to be safe. Louis crawls out the front with a rush of adrenaline that grants him the clarity to perform the next step perfectly. Feet together, hands on his thighs, back straight. And bow.

Perfect.

Crawling back through the rock to Eriko feels like electricity. Oh, he's done it— _this_ , a call to a higher power to protect his relationship with Harry. Louis is thinking of all the ways to tell him about this, if he decides to not leave it his secret. Would that jeopardize the outcome? He has to ask Eriko once he's out.

She's laughing a bit as he does. Amused, Louis figures. Or excited, ready to congratulate him on a ritual done well, proper and as it should be. 

How was he to know?

"Sorry, I made a mistake."

She was the bearer of bad news.

"This is the back. You came in the other way."

It feels like the whole rock dropped and pinned him under it. Louis doesn't even get up off the ground, looking up at her like a dumb dog. "The...I did the thing for the relationship to end?"

Eriko bends down to pull him up, hooking her arm under his. "Don't worry, it wasn't your wish!" she laughs again. This time with her gloved hands on Louis's shoulders, playfully shaking him. "We performed Enkiri, but… The worst thing that could happen is that... nothing happens, probably."

Not a word of that was of any comfort at all. But he's still holding the paper with his wish on it. And that feels like a text left unsent. "Probably."

  
  
  


_gakugyō-jōju: education and passing examinations—for students and scholars_

_shōbai-hanjō: prosperity in business—success in business and matters of money_

_en-musubi: acquisition of a mate and marriage—available for singles and couples to ensure love and marriage_

_anzan: protection for pregnant women for a healthy pregnancy and easy delivery_

Louis looks from his phone to his little baggy of purchased omamori— Japanese amulets sold at shrines to bring luck or protection. Eriko told him all about it at the shop, and he forgot _all_ about it by the time the taxi left him off at the apartment. How could he gush to Harry about his adventures? Specifically, the five omamori he bought? He needed a quick Wikipedia revision before opening the door. Luckily, the trip is long, and the time spent skimming made him confident enough in his trivia to reach for the doorknob.

But he doesn't grab it.

He stops. And pulls his hand back.

There's a lot of sounds that Louis can't forget. Dial-up internet through the telephone, Niall's faulty bottlecap opener, the thud an old coworker at Toys R Us made when she fell 10 feet off a ladder while setting up a Cabbage Patch Doll display, a tape recorder whirring backwards, a particularly creaky cabinet door from a tour bus in 2013.

The muffled sound of Harry sobbing and crying uncontrollably in a private grieving session behind a closed door—

Louis doesn't think he'll be able to forget that.

Harry might get weepy in front of him every other day, but he never lets himself fall into a true wailing cry. And Louis's never heard it enough to remember. He's accidentally walked into Harry mid-sob and red in the face a few times. Harry runs away every time, furious, embarrassed. Louis promised never to do it again should the opportunity present itself.

Well, it has.

And it unlocks the true meaning behind a text Louis forgot about when he left the apartment.

_Text me when you're on the way up!!!_

Maybe the true meaning behind the entire send-off to Kyoto for the day. The whole damn thing.

Louis's brows are knit together to tight, his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut as he keeps his head down. Don't make a sound. Don't walk in. Don't make it worse. It would be easier to tell him to bite his own fingers off one by one. 

Harry cries and cries on and on behind the door, sounding like a child who's been rejected a toy in the department store— except guttural, breaking apart beneath rust. Louis's never heard it before. Not from the next room over, not even when Robin passed.

Louis's lived through enough to know the sound of old, long grieving. Of a battered mind and a mess of regret and resentment where a real human heart ought to beat.

And he's smart enough, above all, to have no need to question Harry's motive. Recent events. Latest developments.

Louis's a genius, then, for closing the window for his browser.

_They dropped me off. Coming up tbe stairs now_

He can hear Harry's phone ring from inside. 

His sobs gone stifled. 

A single sniff.

And then silent.

_Okay! I'm in the bathroom._

_Left you something in the fridge :)_

Oh, he's a clever one. Trying to get Louis to head straight for the kitchen and buy his face time to fade the redness away. 

It was purin, Japanese custard. Harry bought him a big container. Louis ate his bait like a good boy on the table until Harry walked in beaming, the loveliest smile on his face.

"Babe! Hi." Kiss kiss.

"Hey babe."

He didn't get cast in a Nolan movie for nothing. Confident enough in his act that he joined Louis at the opposite side of the table, his face on full display. Not a blemish. He's enthusiastic about Louis's day out and what Eriko told him.

But Louis forgot it all.

  
  
  


Days go on odd. Everything is in descending order. And there's no way of knowing what's at the bottom.

"I bought clothes." There's the top.

"You bought clothes?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh good! Yeah yeah, show me."

"Okay, look."

"Oh! ...It’s a dress. Wow, it’s frilly."

"Yeah, it—yeah."

"Yeah…"

"...What?"

"...It's just, I was expecting like, jeans or sweaters since you seem to be into that."

"I'm not into it I'm just… wearing it. What do you think?"

"It's cute."

A little chuckle marks the middle.

"What?"

"You know I don't have to be _funny_ and _weird_ to you all the time."

"What? I’m not— ...I mean, it’s a dress, it’s… What do you want me to say, love? I thought you bought real clothes."

"And what the fuck is this? A dish rag?"

"Come on, you know what I mean."

"Yeah I know exactly what you mean, you fucking prick."

"Oh what the _fuck_ do you want me to _say_? Write it down if that's the way it's gotta be between us now. Give me a fucking script and you'll be happy with everything I say, eh? Happy days."

"Oh fuck you! Say _nothing_! Don’t fucking say **_anything_** _to me_!!"

"Ace."

"And take your bloody fucking _shoes_ off! For fuck's sake! You fucking _dog_!"

That was rock bottom.

Louis has himself a smoke.

"Went in that rock the wrong way…" Dry, dry little giggle. "Went in the wrong fucking way…"

  
  
  


In the absence of new conversation during their emotional purgatory, Louis's mind begins to wander backwards for entertainment. Naturally. 

And like an idiot. Hindsight hasn't given him any insight he really wanted to know. Nothing that could be of any use in the circumstances surrounding his relationship with Harry. At least, nothing that he believes could. Why shouldn't that be the unquestionable truth? Louis knows best.

He's only thinking back on a conversation he had with Harry in December because he's bored. Of course.

Of course.

“What shops have they got there for clothes? What’s that place… Haru….”

“Harajuku.”

“Harajuku, yeah yeah. Is that too crowded?”

“Very crowded," Harry told Louis's neck. Snuggling sound at his side, naked in bed. "And hip. It’s like, pop culture savvy so I'm pretty sure they’d recognize us both, so…. I don’t even wanna go there. I don’t even feel bad that I can’t go.”

They were watching Pretty Woman and Louis got to musing with all the shopping Julia Roberts did to transform her image completely. “I need new clothes. I’m definitely not feeling me outfits lately. Cos— Cos you know what it is? It’s feeling stale. I feel like I’ve missed a trend and I need to go out there and see, you know? The last thing I’m about to be is frumpy. You know what I mean? I'm ready for a new look. Definitely ready to dive into a few shops.” 

"Mm."

“Let’s get clothes when we're there. Let’s get you some clothes as well, eh? My treat, darling, what do you say?" 

Harry didn't say anything. He turned his body to look at the TV like he didn't hear a word, pillows keeping him upright alongside Louis, only a bit lower.

“I feel like you’ve been wearing the same outfit for a year.”

Harry sighed and gave a pause. "I dunno…" Shifted again, the space between his brows furrowing as he played with the white sheets. “I just wear the free shit that comes mailed… Like, Harry gets me stuff, but… I— I just don't feel like dressing up. Lately. I dunno..."

"You dunno."

"I haven’t been shopping in ages.” And he scrunched his nose a bit, turning up at Louis to tell him, "You know me. I'm a hoarder."

"You love clothes."

"I love dressing up."

"Exactly."

And Harry took a deep breath again, looking Louis in the eye. 

Louis remembers now. Harry didn't carry weight in his voice when he told Louis, 

"But I don't like… people seeing me in them." It was a puzzle. Begging for a state of understanding without the parts put together. A plea.

Unnoticed. Motion denied. Louis snorted loud enough that it makes him cringe now, in the present where he thinks back. When he told Harry, "You're so full of shit."

He can't remember Harry saying anything.

“Come shopping with me. I’ll pick you some things.” 

"No."

"Let me pick you some things."

“Louis, I don’t wanna wear anything. It’s…”

“What is it?”

Harry closed his eyes like he was just getting comfy. But it was the screen at the confession screen at church going up. “There’s no point,” he told him first. 

And with a twitch at his forehead again,

“I don't... like the way I look," he said.

Louis made a face. “What? Why? You're a fucking hunk, you're mad." Harry, the woodland beauty, sharply sculpted by a hand that mastered in symmetry. Body the anti of an hourglass, the way it has to. And he's tall enough. Curly-headed like Michelangelo's marble and meaty in the same places. Marble, muscle, meat, and manhood. What was he talking about? Louis couldn't imagine that day. 

Harry mumbled like a mouse. “I don’t know. Just don't… like it.”

So Louis ran his fingertips over his nose, his lips. The dusted freckles, the pouty cupid’s bow framing his pink lips. "Change your hair, maybe? Um, dye it, trim it. Do something adventurous.”

But Harry just kept going, this time watching Julia Roberts eat dinner on the TV. “It’s like…. I look this way, because I do it, like… presenting myself this way. It looks good, I know. But I don’t really care, I…I don't—"

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know, I… I mean…It’s not what I like. It’s just what I do. You know.”

Louis knows. But that day, a sense of ease fell over him. 

Ah, good, he thought. Believing he fully understood.

It was nothing. At least, nothing new. He knew the nature of their line of work. Naturally, he felt he was about to solve the issue. "Is the label giving you shit? What, you have to stick with the rockstar bit? They want you dressing like young Bon Jovi or some shit?” 

But Harry didn't get to saying anything for a while. "No…"

And Louis lost momentum, he got annoyed in that silence. The refusal to let this be his business. Harry never did, always the one to surrender. 

"It's not the label… It's me."

"Is it."

"Fucking— _yes_ ." He couldn't help slap his hands on the sheets. "Fuck. _Yes_ , Louis, they don't... care what I do lately. I'm not, like… priority. I’m not, you know, this— their… their shiny new fucking toy... anymore. Jesus.”

"You never told me that."

Dubious. Phrased like he caught him in a lie. And Harry picked up on the tone, subtle cynicism that was hollow enough to be light, polite. It wasn't mean, so he couldn't be sensitive within reason. Louis didn't mean to pinch him in a trap that forced him into custodianship. But he did have his ways. And a mop and bucket passed over a mess couldn't be met with disapproval, Louis always figured, no matter the duress he was mostly in denial of.

But he was about to _fix it_ that day. Sing hurrah, throw confetti with Harry over his insecurities blown away. Why would Harry mind? Louis was _right_.

"It’s just gonna take a while to grow out of, is all it is. You’re self conscious. You know, hyper aware of yourself and how you look and what other people are gonna be thinking of you. That need for approval is just hovering over you like a habit— like it’s second nature. But you’ll grow out of it. If the label really isn’t on you like before you won’t be unconsciously, like… thinking about what looks good. Give it time, love.”

“It’s like…"

Something to fully verify his expert analysis, he expected with utmost certainty.

"...it’s not here for me. And I’m tired of it being here. I’m tired of looking at it and dressing it. It’s not mine... It’s shit.”

What was that supposed to mean? It’s like he didn’t listen to a word Louis said. And that got his ego grumbling. And Louis had _no_ idea what to say then. He hadn't really heard Harry talk about himself like that. With such distaste and disdain, no kindness. "You need confidence. And tummy kisses maybe?”

Harry rubbed his eyes.

"Here?" Louis poked Harry's tummy. "Kissy here?" And started to rub.

"It’s like… who’s body is this? Where do I start… getting rid of it…"

Louis didn't hear that, he believed. Thinking back today, it's annoyingly obvious that he had.

His hands were limp down to the tips, dragging across his favorite body. Hard and toned, always hidden in clothes so baggy, like a sheet. Always sagging trousers and sweaters on top. Shapeless under concealment. And the weather wasn't even that cold. There were always layers enveloping him and everything beneath. Like he was just a head.

Louis told himself he never noticed, watching Harry sink and lie still on the bed with eyes closed. Nothing else to notice. A lost conversation tossed in selfishness. Two missed stops ignored while looking right at it. The way he always did.

Does.

"You comfy, baby?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Usually you're wrapped around me like a koala."

Harry's face lied still. Then suddenly, he pounced until he was half on top of Louis. So heavy— he knocked the wind right out of him and got him groaning.

Harry laughed, and that big smile spread wide across his face. 

"I'm in pain, but— you're so pretty when you do that…!" Louis remembers now, he wasn't in pain at all. All he wanted was to please Harry and make his ego burst with enchantment.

Of course it did. Harry's eyes sparkled, his worries gone, his body close to Louis. "Do what?"

"Just… light up, like this. When you smile. And you’re happy."

Louis sighs and closes his eyes as he thinks back on that day. Squeezes them, frowns. Deep drag of his cigarette with a hard blow out. It shouldn't bother him to reminisce on a happy memory. But he can't help hating himself for being so…

Has he always been like that? What else has Harry tried to tell him? For how long?

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

When Louis tosses his cigarette in the snow, he tucks his hands in his coat pocket and rushes up the stairs. He's cold, but that's manageable.

His session of retrospecting has just left him missing Harry to a horrible, intolerable degree. And he can't have that long smoking break like he always does in a mood. Cut short— so short. He's almost running down the halls in his boots, desperate to crawl back into bed with his baby and tell him he loves him and cherishes him like nothing he's ever known before. 

It's the first time Louis remembers to take off his shoes at the door. Silent night. He tip toes towards the bed, but sees it missing a head at the pillow. Right away his eyes catch sight of Harry's unmistakable silhouette by the stove. On instinct he's on his way over. Like a baby animal to its mother, knowing nothing else but its underlying need to be one with the only thing it's ever known. And coming face— well, back— with the thing he longs the most...

he has to wonder. What are the odds?

He's caught Harry crying again.

This time it's the usual. A bit of huffing, sobbing, sniffing. Wiping his eyes, head down. And trembling. Trembling as he sobs.

But this time Louis can't stand the usual script. Tired, overwhelmed, upset by everything the tide keeps washing up at the shore, and his own desperate need to 

get rid of it.

"Baby."

"Ah, _fuck_!"

That didn't go well. Harry jumps and leaves his side. "Sorry—"

"Ugh, you _scared_ me!" He wipes his face furiously. Obviously upset— this time at Louis. But Louis just grabs his shoulders, tries to tame this stallion. His heart pounding, breathing heavy enough his voice trembles.

"Baby, were you—"

"It’s allergies." And Harry pushes past him in a hurry, sniffing. "Have to pee."

Well, that's a logical excuse to lock himself in the bathroom. Louis's faced with a shut shoji door and a strip of yellow light at the bottom. Powerless, he presses his ear at the door to invade without shame. But the water is running, splashing in the sink. It's sickness he feels, a blind shot of adrenaline making him panic over things unspoken, unknown. Things that have yet to happen. Will they happen?

What was happening?

Harry opens the door. 

"What are you doing?" And that voice is polished, prepped. The sadness washed right down the bathroom sink.

Why would that stop Louis? It's pitch black, their bodies just shapes. Louis wishes he were pleading at a pair of eyes when he stops Harry at the door. "Baby, what's wrong? Talk to me." 

"N-Nothing I…" 

And it pains him a bit to see that Harry didn't expect him to insist. 

"I had th— I told you I was sneezing. It's the dust, the sheets. Fuck's sake."

Every familiar path tells Louis to play along. Play his part as the one to deny conflict, the one Harry's washed away his tears for. Isn't he? Louis doesn't know how he can think otherwise anymore. But Harry's flinching and running away from him, away from the open arms trying to say, 'I'm here. Talk to me. Tell me everything.'

Were they even saying that?

Louis watches Harry crawl into bed quick, and wrap the sheets around him to his neck. The whole script is a joke. And walking over, standing before him, he doesn't know what to say. Play along or push for a resolution.

"I'll clean the sheets for you tomorrow, love. Get that dust out, yeah?"

"Okay. Goodnight."

Tomorrow they're leaving back to London. What laundry? Maybe Harry was too tired to remember, or just too eager to get Louis off his case to tell him otherwise. The latter upsets him enough he might not get over it. But once in bed, Harry's pulling Louis's hips towards him as he turns on his side. Little spoon is calling. So...

Yeah, he'll clean the sheets for Harry tomorrow. 

Goodnight.

  
  


“There?”

"Yeah!"

"Well fuck _us_ , I guess."

"No! It's not like that."

"What's to be of my cake then? Who am I baking for?"

"January 31st is a lovely day that I think still exists in our realm of existence."

"It's not the same…"

"It's _my_ birthday."

“You just wanna spend your 25th birthday completely alone in Japan where you know absolutely no one.”

“I have friends there, you hag! And Mitch and Sara and Claire, they’re dropping by as well.”

"Oh, so there's still a party here. Or— a get-together, yeah. Just the family."

"Well, and a few friends. They don't make catering for five people."

"We can cook!"

"Oh, we could!"

"I'll whip up some desserts for you, as well. Specially made."

"Aaw, you're so sweet to me!"

Harry gets the best ring in his voice when he talks and laughs with his sister. A bit high with a nice bounce. _"I sound so gay with her."_ She's not as cheeky, apparently, when Louis's around. Even if they've known each other for a decade, even if Louis's lying on the hammock over two yards away from the canopy bench these two siblings swing on, legs tangled together from opposing sides. 

Harry seems somewhat abrasive by comparison with the meek Gemma. But Louis is always so perceptive to the many front covers of Harry's lettering. Gemma undoubtedly gets the most obnoxious of him, because he knows she'll never fall into disappointment or consider abandonment. A release, really. Relief from a long-winded wire. Louis's watched with amazement at how _unbearable_ and _unreasonable_ and _unlikeable_ Harry's capable of being with her, especially when ignored— which is often. Like he's the same child of divorce that left Cheshire. Or maybe, the one that left Manchester. Gemma isn't one to babysit or entertain his complex. But she is one to tolerate. And understand— maybe, the same way Louis does. With love. And a bit of pity. 

Admittedly, Louis studies him with a different lense this time. A different subject fluttering in the flora. Snow, actually. English winter keeps the backyard to Anne's house vacant, Harry and Gemma sharing a fleece blanket over their coats and jeans, hot chocolate in their mittens. No such sight in July. Not at all.

The hammock swings left, and right. Left, and right. Gemma and Harry disappear under every left swing, and appear at the right one. A magic act Louis hadn't noticed, going on in a subtext as Louis comes to think…

Swing left, swing right.

If it was summer, this backyard would be lush green with flowery bushes along the tall fence. Yes. Great for parties and frolicking pets. Once summer comes, Harry will prance along with them, or have a dip in the pool, lounge on the beach chair with his shorts and flip flops, tits out.

_Swing left, swing right._

He'll forget the sunscreen. And Louis will go get it from inside. Walk back out, squinting in the hot sun before pulling his Ray-Bans down over his eyes. And walk. Walk over.

_Left._

Anne will be back from picking tile for the bathroom renovations upstairs so,

it'd be best Harry put on her bikini top.

_Right._

"Lou~ Do it for me, I'm sleepy..."

That's not a voice Louis's heard before. 

"Do you need— Oh! No, you've got it! Well done, love!"

Her C cup breasts are saggy so, they sink to the sides when she's lying on her back. Louis's gotta scoop to get them both in the bikini bra. Pat pat to make them jiggle so she laughs. 

And so Louis will take a seat and get to work, the sun burning through his shoulders. SPF 75 to Harry's full, squishy breasts, her abdomen gone hard with the butterfly bulged from a big lunch. Curvy like a 17th century noblewoman surrounded by bread and exotic fruit meant to account for her full figure. Muscular arms, strong thighs. And those hips— so wide and soft, rippled with stretch marks from her love of sweets. He lifts up her bikini bottom just to get the furry mound of her pubis nice and covered with sunscreen. She stays real still, sleepy indeed.

Still, the little jokester; "On my face as well," green eyes will say. Where'd that nap go? There's dimples on her goofy face, lips soft from her cherry balm. She's trying to bug Louis with chores.

"Oh, we mustn't forget about the face," Louis will say, squirting sunscreen on his fingertips and rubbing them together. "Very important."

Eyes closed again. That tall nose gets the brunt of the sun's heat, so Louis's generous applying protection there. And on Harry's rosy cheeks, her lightly wrinkled forehead. Out of habit she always runs her fingers through her long hair, so she'll do it and bother Louis when her curls stick to her skin, and he has to be the one to get them out. 

Because she gets sleepy. And falls asleep snoring when Louis goes over her chest and fat breasts again, already reddening around the bikini. Terrible. No matter.

Louis will be there, armed with a bottle of Banana Boat and all the time in the world to take care of

her. 

_Sway left, sway right. Sway left, sway right._

"Right, Lou?"

"What?" Louis turns his head to the left to look at Harry, impossibly bundled in his coat and blanket— and scarf. He stole Gemma's right off her neck. 

"You're coming with me, on my birthday. In Japan."

"Of course."

Gemma is skeptical, apparently. And maybe a bit bored, not too enthusiastic when she asks, "But the label, or whatever…" Taking a sip of cocoa. "They're, um…"

"They let him!" Harry's exasperated by Gemma's line of questioning, whatever it was while Louis was lost in thought. Or having a vision, maybe.

"So they won't—"

“No, they won’t be milking my ugly mug so they can throw a big fucking party at some club in Calabasas, and invite half the label and like, every person who’s ever blinked at me, and have them all drop off some… discount candle and eat my cake, and ask me about my business just to... blab about it for the rest of the year. And— and take a picture _with_ me, take pictures _of_ me, and let everyone _know_ they know _me_. Or the back of my head.”

Louis snorts. Gemma and Harry turn their heads to watch him bundled on his hammock and losing composure at his own humor. "Here—Here's me and Harry Styles, what a legend! ...And it's just your elbow…!"

The snowy backyard of Anne Twist's house echoes with very annoying laughter. Very happy laughter.

And it is a very awful thing. To be encased in a moment of familiarity and find the air suffocating. So glaringly tarnished it doesn't allow anything but _unease_. When Harry's smiling as he says,

"I’m not worth it, I hate everyone. It’s such a big fucking circus, innit. Told you the label doesn’t care about me anymore... Not like before.”

Not even a big smile. Not even the effort.

“They want, like… constant Instagram and Twitter and cool, sexy parties and… I’m a grumpy faggot who doesn’t even take selfies. And I dress like shit, I look like an old man. I'm not what anyone wants.”

Gemma doesn't even care. Why Harry's set on being so grim in the first place, knowing in futility that as of late, pity parties are seldom spared for the millionaire baby brother with a movie and a solo career under his belt, no matter what miseries he sprinkles into conversation about expired looks or executive prioritizing. So trite, boring— Gemma makes it clear. She's pulled out her phone for a better form of entertainment, certainly not one to be engaged in Harry's attempts at gaining sympathy on 7-digit matters she could never relate to.

Louis gets it, the whole tango. He just wishes they wouldn't dance while he was there. He can't stand the deprecation. “Who gives a shit what people are fucking saying about you?” A break from the abrasion, a call for ceasefire. Because he doesn't know what to say, the conversation making him callous and too upset to behave for much longer. Not in front of guests.

“Not me!" Harry hums, shuffling himself closer against his blanket. "I don't care, it’s great."

It's not. Louis's frowning and Harry isn't looking. He wishes he would. Wishes he could say, _"I feel bad for you, I always do. It always matters to me."_ Like it could make him stop picking his wounds open. Make him shut up.

"I get to be alone, no one bothering me, no big parties. No one looking at my… big, stupid… stupid face."

"It's not stupid, Harry."

"A bit of insecurity won't hurt him." Gemma snorts. "Let him build some character. Can't think so highly of himself _all_ the time."

 _"He's not as confident as you think,"_ Louis fantasizes about saying again. _"He fucking hates himself, don't make him feel unimportant. What the fuck is wrong with you?"_

"Just me, a few friends, lots of cake just for me, and Lou. This is gonna be the best birthday I’ve had in a _long_ time.”

And that's to tell Gemma he hasn't had a good birthday in years. That's to make her care. Well, Louis cares. Cares very much. He cares that he doesn't believe Harry, he cares that he sees a stormy February forecast without a coat or parasol to help either of them manage the weather. Gemma won't even be there. Why does Harry care what she thinks? Why kick up his own sorrow for an audience with better things to look at than a millionaire who's got it made?

Well, doesn't he know Louis feels bad for him? Doesn't he care that he cares? Isn't it enough? Is it worth so little he goes fishing right in front of him?

Useless. Barren purpose, worthless attempts at betterment. Stability is as easy to grasp as a flickering flame under a bright day. In the wind. On a matchstick. And so, nothing ever lasts. Nothing ever sticks. Everything is a constant pull inward and under, like sand sinking in a jungle moviescape, our hero buried to the jaw and uttering his frantic final confessions.

Louis doesn't know what to say.

  
  
  


Driving didn't feel like such a good idea, but Harry was chipper in his ruse, so Louis couldn't argue with his enthusiasm. Or really, crack it apart. Make him sad. Shake him by the shoulders and make him look him in the eye and _talk_ about _things_ and _problems_. 

What good would that do? Harry's got a reggae playlist playing on the car stereo because he's in a _good_ mood. So Louis just spares gratitude for the fact that that good mood lets him smoke his cigarette with the window down. If Harry were crabby there'd be a spat between them about someone catching sight of them, or the smell of cigarette smoke sticking to the seats and making future guests wonder what mystery person Harry had sitting in the passenger seat. It's chilly, too. The heater was set to be on blast.

No, Harry had hot cocoa and saw his family. They're on a rural backroad with lovely snowy hills and dairy cows. Harry likes wearing his coat anyway. And Louis looks handsome with the faux fur hood of his parka jacket hanging off his shoulders. He can do as he pleases. 

"You know, I can't remember the last time you sucked my dick."

Louis raises his eyebrows and slowly turns his head to look at Harry on his right. A few blinks.

Harry just gives him one glance with a goofy grin, both hands on the steering wheel. "Right?" Like they're having a chat about airline food or discount kitchen cutlery sets at Debenhams. 

Louis's eyes go wide with a snort, and a drag of his cigarette blown out the window. There's a thing or two he could say on _this_ subject. Still, it might be sensitive. So he keeps it passive. "Well there's been a bit of a situation, hasn't there…" he tells a passing cow. A situation. What even was it? Maybe Harry would finally tell him. That sparks his interest even more.

"I know," Harry assures him in this sweet little voice, talking out to the road. Driving a bit too fast like always. "It's just that… well, it's always me getting my face stuffed, isn't it?"

"You're driving through the lovely English countryside and this is what you've had on your mind—"

"Can't remember a bit of a switch. God… Been forever."

"Well who's fault is that?"

Louis couldn't help it. It sounded meaner than he anticipated it would coming out. Only, he didn't anticipate it. He just regrets, a little. It makes him fix his fringe in a fidget, looking at himself in the side mirror to his left. Harry's erectile situation shouldn't be any of his business, and it certainly shouldn't be anything to frustrate _him_. 

"No, I know! I just meant—"

Still. "God knows I'd hold up my end of the bargain." He's immediately defensive, insecure about Harry laying the blame on him rather than himself. The hand swatting, the shut legs, the denial of stimulation— Louis's never gone wrong. He's never insisted, never teased. "You know, you never ask." And that makes him suck his cigarette again, blow it out quick while trying not to let the cold wind blow it back in his face. "Fuck, I'm always down. Shit." 

"Are you down now?'

He chokes. The coughing amuses Harry, who looks amusing himself bundled adorably in his chunky coat with fluffy wool at his neck and cuffs, all dimples and giggles and talking about cocksucking. Louis can hear a cow moo. This is absurd. "What, _now_ now?" Is his hand hanging out the window still holding his cigarette? Should he drop it? He huffs it again, in his mouth when he turns his head to look at Harry with sparkling doe eyes. "We talking road head here, babe?" Road head, road head, _road head_ —

"Why not?"

"...With your driving?"

They giggle.

"We'll fucking crash."

Harry huffs. "And here I thought you were always down to go down on me." Then objects. "Wait, no, I'm sorry, is this guilting? Oh I don't wanna pressure you, darling, I'm only being a tease. I'm _playing~_!"

"You're fine, baby. I could do with a fat cock in me mouth. Haven't had lockjaw in a while."

Harry suddenly pushes his seat all the way back with a grin. "Fucking _get in_!"

"Let me fucking roll up the window for this shit." Oh, Louis means business. Harry cackles as he watches Louis throw his cigarette out the window and hurry to get it closed. "Crank that heater _up_!" More ugly laughs watching the heater turned up on medium setting. "BOOM!" And Louis unbuckles his seatbelt to take his jacket off, the fur hood swatting him in the face before he throws it in the backseat. "Fuck— okay."

Harry wiggles in his seat excitedly before sitting back. "Are we ready? Babe?" One hand on the wheel, both eyes on the road. "Everything in order? Are we ready for takeoff, captain?"

Louis leans over and gives him a kiss on the cheek. Soft, gentle. The wind definitely blew the cigarette smoke in this face more than he thought it did. And like a good boyfriend, he knows Harry enjoys the smell of secondhand on his skin, on his cologne. That musk mixes well with sex, with the little kiss he lets fall over Harry's jaw, his neck. He reaches his arm out for the radio and the SUV falls silent. No sound except a little hum. Then another, Harry shivering as Louis kisses down his neck.

"Maybe you should drive slower."

"Yeah."

It's a clumsy foot eased off the gas, making them both rock forward a bit. Harry's coat is buttoned up, so Louis does well with undoing them one by one. "You're a bit of a slut, aren't you?" Kiss to his ear. "Needing it like this, right now…"

"Yeah…" Harry breathes. Swallows, tries to keep his breathing steady as Louis touches his chest underneath his coat. "Can't help it, daddy…" His white shirt is quite thin, his nipples poking against them nicely. Louis takes his time dragging his fingers over each one, and that gets Harry whimpering again. And the car swerves a bit.

Had they actually done this before? Louis doesn't want them to die. "You okay there, babe?" he giggles.

Harry gives him a weird laugh, cheeks burning red and lips flushed from a bite. "Y-You can go down now."

"Yeah?" He isn't even hard. Louis is, though. Hard enough to make it difficult to keep untouched. Another kiss to the side of Harry's mouth, this time lightly reciprocated. And Louis does what Harry says next.

Good to know the beige trousers aren't pulled up to his navel this time. "Need it, daddy…" That's even better to know.

Louis just wants Harry to feel good, he tells himself. Because truthfully, a part in the back of his head holds shame over his enthusiasm. Not his problem— not a problem at all. No big deal. The worst thing that can happen is that the same thing as always happens. Or that they crash— somewhat less likely than the former.

Harry isn't hard. Not even close. Louis doesn't know if that really did mean that he needed it. Daddy's gonna try anyway, though. He thinks it might hurt his feelings to ask. And it might call off their endeavor altogether if he asks,

'Hey, why can't you get hard anymore, anyway?'

Cock is cock, though. Hard or not. Just looking at Harry's sitting there in his lap sends zaps to Louis's own, even licking his lips with a little smile. How long had it been? Would've been odd to keep count, so Louis's glad he doesn't know. Doesn't think at all, really. "So pretty, baby…" Because he can't think of anything else to call Harry's 3 inch little cock. It's gorgeous and soft and _Harry's_. And Harry whimpers, thrusting a little when Louis starts kissing his bare tummy, his pelvis, the happy trail leading to the eventual object of his affection.

Louis just kisses it. His right hand grabs the base to keep it upright between his thumb and his index finger, his left squeezing his balls. The engine is a bit noisy but he can hear Harry moaning enough to be confident in what he's doing. 

Because truthfully, it's a little too easy to slip into insecurity when Harry's dick fails to spring to life after three minutes of work. It's weird, suckling on a completely flaccid penis for so long. Mostly because it's Louis's first time engaged in foreplay enough to really, well, suck cock like this. Harry's soft cock stretches in his mouth, flattening against his tongue and never meeting the back of his throat. And he has to keep pinching the base to hold it steady, keep it from slipping from his mouth and lying flat again. Nothing changes. Not even for a second. But he can't let Harry feel bad about it, so he pulls his own pants down until his erection is free for him to jerk off. Hopefully Harry sees Louis's enjoying himself. How hot he is in his mouth, how good it feels to taste this part of Harry again. It's intimate the way he'd missed. Because it's his _boyfriend_ , and he _loves_ him, and he's _gay_.

"Sorry, I-I— Um—!"

Louis pulls himself up, immediately concerned. "What happened?"

Harry's dimpled cheeks are bright red. "It won't—" He laughs, whines. "It's not you!"

"What?" Oh. Right. The absence of an erection after an eternity of trying. That flew over Louis's head since it's free of conflict on his end. Suckling on a lifeless cock is weird, but enjoyable, regardless. Everything with Harry is enjoyable when they're intimate— except, when Harry doesn't think it is.

"You wanna stop?"

"No, I— I want to! I-I mean th— the, the head— road head! No, don't stop, _please_!"

Harry's rambling, nervous. The road ahead goes on straight but he seems so preoccupied with it. And Louis's heart is racing a little at the mixed signals. "I don't know, babe..." Looking at Harry's cock again, looking at his own. 

"I think I'm nervous! Hold on, love. Sorry!"

And so Harry pulls over on the side of the road. They're next to a wire fence with a large stretch of empty land, dark through the tinted windows. Louis looks around to see if anyone's driving by, but Harry wasn't lying when he said he took a _really_ old road. He's still looking out the windshield like it matters, but he quickly drops his hands from the steering wheel and turns to give Louis a smile. 

"Okay, try now."

The center of Louis's brows furrows a bit. "You make it sound like a car engine. Nothing wrong with you, you know." And his expression softens. "You're not… broken. Or anything."

Another smile from Harry. "Thank you."

It's a good sign, Louis thinks. Harry seems at ease. Maybe it really was just the driving that had him anxious. Louis's cock is throbbing from the lack of stimulation so he has to give it a tug, pleased when he notices Harry watching. "Just wanna make you feel good, yeah? Let me know if you like it, baby."

"I do, I do— like it. I like it. Just been a while…" He stutters again. "Can we, um… like, again?"

"Yeah?" Louis asks Harry with a kiss to his lips. A welcome change— this time Harry can close his eyes and kiss him back proper. And it's more than that— it gets sloppy with deep moans from both of them. Louis surrenders to him. Lets him control the kiss, cup his face and suck on his tongue until he's whimpering. Slowing down, letting Louis take control again. 

"Again daddy… please…"

He sounds so needy and sexy. Louis's cock is too hard to debate further. "Okay, baby…" And down he goes again.

No erection, unsurprisingly. But Louis's run out of the effort to care. Because he just doesn't. Going down on Harry feels so _nice_ , whatever shape his goods are in. They're _good_ , they're _warm_ , they're _Harry_. And Harry's panting above him, breathing in deep and slow. Louis can hear it better now that the engine is stagnant, and the noises Harry makes during sex always drive him wild. Would they get to fuck after this? He hopes so. Thinking about that was the best idea, because now he's indulging in the image of him and Harry fucking in the backseat. 

Harry's breathing deeper. Harder. No moans, whimpers. Just air. Louis sucks him harder, faster, and he jacks himself off harder. The tip of his cock is pink and leaking over his thumb. Was he just using Harry as a tool to get himself off at this point? He isn't thinking. Harry's breath is sharper, and sharper. Faster. Louder. Not his usual at all, but Louis doesn't give it much thought because, surely he'd tell him to stop if he _wasn't_ enjoying himself. And Louis certainly _is_. It's new, it's sexy, it's exciting, and his legs are starting to kick and stir under the dashboard as he feels an orgasm coming. 

This time he focuses on Harry's sounds again, wanting to cum with as much of Harry on his senses. Thinking about fucking him, tasting him in his mouth, and hearing him breathe hard and pant above him. So deep, more intense than before. He must really like it, Louis thinks. And he swears he's so close to cumming. Toes curling, balls twitching against his hand.

And then…

Harry hiccups.

It doesn't fly past Louis. Not that. Not _ever_.

"Baby?"

His face is red. Crying.

"Hey—!"

He stuffs his cock back in his trousers. Opens the door. And he gets out. 

" _Jesus!_ "

Louis thinks for a moment he's about to make a run for it, and has to chase Harry down the road or through a field without a coat. And isn't that an affirmation of the state of their relationship. But he thanks God that Harry just darted into the backseat, so fast that Louis's still trying to get out the passenger's seat when he slams the door shut behind him.

It's so cold outside. Somehow, it feels just as cold in the backseat when he gets in. Louis stuffs his flaccid cock back in his pants like it was never erect in the first place.

Because Harry's crying. The kind where he'll just wheeze through his teeth and tremble with weeping eyes. Panic attack. Except,

this time he slides away from Louis until he slams against the door. Shoulders hunched. And when Louis reaches out for him, he finds himself bound to his spot when Harry flinches. More upset. He won't look at him. And waiting there for a moment, he squeezes his puffy eyes shut, hyperventilating proper just so he doesn't cry harder. And Louis notices

his legs are fused together. And one hand is buried in between.

Louis can't describe the feeling. But 'afraid' feels like the understatement of the century, not enough of a poet to know a more severe word for his dread. He just knows his chest hurts from how hard his heart beats, his stomach sinking into some impossible pit. And actually, Louis feels more like he's on fire. His gaze is a burning one, anyway. Watching Harry have a panic attack and reject any effort to comfort him, the way he's never done. His first and only concern:

"Did I do something?"

"No!" Harry gasps. His lips are fused together and his breath paused in his chest. Swallowing. Trying desperately, in vain, to calm himself down. Make it all go away.

"You sure?"

That makes him sob a little, but he quickly swallows it down. He nods. And this time he opens his eyes, red and filled with tears he looks right through. One blink and they spill. A hiccup with his mouth closed. And his eyebrows curve up, his breathing falling apart. Harry gives Louis a look as if to grieve or lament. Lamenting that

he didn't like it.

He didn't like it anymore.

It was like the worst thing that ever happened to him. Not that he didn't like it anymore— but that it happened. Wasn't embarrassment, wasn't shame. More like…

a trauma. New. What he'd been avoiding was brought upon him by his own hand. And it felt like being put through a meat grinder. A horror. A real, new horror he hadn't known until that moment in the driver's seat. 

Louis tells himself he doesn't know— anything, anything in the world. A thought, a gesture. It's all in flames as he looks at this sight of Harry, so destroyed like he'd never believe he could be. Destroyed by… "I'm sorry..."

But Harry just shakes his head, eyes squeezed shut again as he starts to sob. Leaning against the door trembling. Cries a little. 

Until he's crying a lot. And then 

letting it out. Bawling with jagged breaths, crying, crying, crying. And he's so loud and uncontrollable. He flinches when Louis reaches out again on instinct, and it doesn't get better after that. He's only louder, immersing deeper in his sobs. Because Harry just wants to _cry_ about it, about what it felt like. Louis can't even imagine it. 

"It's okay, baby…"

Louis believes it anyway. Stubborn as a mule— he won't surrender to defeat. He won't give up efforts to mend crumbling walls and save sand castles from the tide. Louis won't let anything change them. They have to stay. But what do they mean? What did any of it mean? Why was Harry so upset? Louis's banging on cement walls with only himself standing on both sides. The most useless, futile battle. What's happening?

Well, Harry's crying and he needs him. That's all. When he reaches out again, Harry doesn't flinch. Louis's hand is placed on his trembling one to try it's best to squeeze him tight. Finally, Harry accepts, and looks down at their interwined fingers just to keep from looking at Louis. Louis's gaze would pierce right through him, anyway. Brow tense, cheeks flushed, blue eyes burning like the sun. Can't help it— but he never gets this way. Usually he can compose himself. Usually, he knows. 

Knows what to do. 

It's awfully hot in the car. And Harry's still wearing his coat. Louis scoots over to take it off. Gently, not too fast. Harry's finally looking at his face now that his eyes are elsewhere. The skin down to his neck is bright red and shining with tears, with sweat. Eyes so puffy, lips so flushed. Sobs rushed, broken breathing. 

And then he says the worst thing in the world.

"I tried…!"

Something about that— Louis doesn't know why. But it gets his eyes watering. And his ears, aching. Like nails banged inside with a hammer. Because Harry sounds so desperate, so terrified. 

Terrified of him. 

Louis snaps his head up, brows curved up with just the faintest twitch. Harry's just a devastated sight, tears streaming down his cheeks with nothing to stop it. And Louis almost can't process it. Even when Harry squeezes his hand back hard he can't find comfort in it, in anything. "It's okay, baby…" he breathes, swallowing hard with a sniff and a clenched jaw. What did Harry expect him to say? Better luck next time? Would he really? 

"I-I tried r— really, _h-hard_ …!"

Why was Harry thinking about it that way? Why did he put himself through that just to please him? Why did it matter so much? It's driving Louis mad, anxious like he needs to run a million miles to make it stop. And then run more, more. Run forever until his bones break and his body drops to the ground.

He whispers his words like a shot in the dark.

"We don't have to do it again."

Do what? What did he mean?

"Ever again."

And Harry nods. Exactly what he needed to hear. Louis almost can't believe that it was.

Harry isn't sobbing so hard now. Just wiping his face with his palm and sniffling as he watches Louis rush to take his coat off. Childish, so obviously shrivelled and fragile. Once he's in just his untucked shirt, he rushes into Louis's arms so he can hold him. 

Finally. It's finally okay. He's crying again, but. 

It feels okay. 

Because Harry wants him. Harry needs him again.

"Shh, don't worry, baby. I don't care, it's alright…"

Harry's skin is burning and his hold on Louis is too tight to be comfortable. Crying into his neck, it's loud by his ear and worse as it bounces off the walls of the car. 

And it's perfect. Because no matter what, 

Louis gets to squeeze him back and rock him a bit. Whisper in his ear,

"I got you, baby… I'm here, you're alright…"

He doesn't hold shame for feeling like he finally got the right key in the lock. Never.

"It's nothing, baby…"

Louis can see a cow standing by a wire fence right outside the door, and he just stares. White with black spots, big and fat, peaking her nose through the fence to inspect the curious vehicle parked beside her. Harry would've been delighted.

"Always gonna take care of you, hm? Always gonna be my baby…"

He doesn't stop crying until they're lying together in the SUV's trunk. The engine's off, but they stay warm with their bodies clinging side by side in both their coats again. Safe. Louis keeps his arms around Harry, his lips pressed to the top of his head as he breathes him in. And lets his heartbeat lull Harry to sleep. 

The sun goes down outside the windows. Louis stays wide awake. 

Thinking at all is the last thing he'll let himself do. Not about driving home, not about dinner, not about what happened. 

He didn't want to think about the problem anymore. But, more than anything…

he didn't want to think about the solution.

  
  
  


The good thing about Harry is that he quickly bounces back from a breakdown. The bad thing about Harry is that he quickly bounces back from a breakdown. Moving on is less like picking up the pieces and more like throwing them in the basement so the house is clean when the guests are over. Old habits of a popstar in emotional peril. Louis doesn't like it when Harry tidies up for his sake. Puts on a show, for his sake.

And yet he's never disputed it. How much can he resent not talking about it? It was Harry's pre-birthday party at his mother's house today and Gemma bought him two cakes from his favorite bakery. That has to be better than untangling barbed wire. Why dwell? 

Louis never does. He put all his grief and trauma in a wooden chest and filled it with cement. His foundation is solid stone and just as hard to crack. Sometimes Louis wonders if Harry's trying to follow his footsteps. To become stunted at the expense of never coming apart. Of being so immune to conflict he can't ever really know closure. Harry would be eating cake all the time. And Louis would forget what he looks like when he cries.

It's 12am, back home on the kitchen table as Harry eats _more_ of his birthday cake. Louis didn't think he could after all the party favors and home cooking he ate earlier. Of course his family made too much for the five people invited. Of course they knew Harry would take it all back home in a mountain of doggy bags stacked in the trunk of their SUV along with plenty of gifts. Everyone knew to get him kitchen appliances and kitschy finds because they know him best. Gift cards to American restaurants like he needs them. Nail polish. Hair curlers as a joke. He was so happy. For a while, Louis didn't think he could be.

But Harry's got his fluffy lavender bathrobe on and strawberry frosting in his mouth, and he's alright. The dim kitchen lighting makes him look so soft and warm. They watched Scarface for a while— that put them in a good mood too. So did the alcohol. And the caramel popcorn. And trying out the new coffee maker Harry got. Louis drank a cup but he isn't hungry much. He's got a lot on his mind beneath the flawless facade he's held up since the incident in the countryside. He's always wondered if Harry makes himself forget, but Louis never does. Not about to wonder anymore, though.

He's got a gift bag to pull out of the kitchen cabinet.

"Baby."

"Hm?"

"Look."

Harry lifts his eyes from his half-eaten slice of cake, and they immediately move to the gift bag Louis discreetly placed on the marble countertop. "Mm!" He swallows the chewed up strawberry cake in his mouth quick. Immediately his face comes alive, bright and vibrant like it's his party all over again. "A surprise gift? _Babe_!" And he's up on his feet, rushing to meet an excited Louis.

It's such an adrenaline rush to do this, even if he'd already done this just hours ago with the guitar, jewelry, and massive collection of raw healing crystals he gifted Harry at the party. His heart beats a drum in his chest, but it's melting too at the sight of his smiling boy. "It's a secret gift!" he exclaims. "Look at that!"

Harry slams both hands on the counter. "A secret _special_ gift!" And leans over to have a look at the bag. Blank, ivory; gift paper sticking out, not too big. "Is it a naughty gift? It has to be naughty if I couldn't open it in front of mum!" And that makes him _greatly_ enthusiastic, gasping before raving, "Did you get me another vibrator? A plug. A super cute pair of wrist cuffs— is it wrist cuffs? Oh _Louis_ , you old _dog_!" 

"I don't know! You'll have to see!" Louis has to giggle. "Go ahead, darling. Reach in."

"Shall I close my eyes?" Harry answers his own question when he squeezes them closed and dips his hand inside the crinkling bag.

Louis's heart begins to hop with the thrill of it. Harry looks so happy, dimples deep and crinkles by his eyes. "Now, this is one of two— one of two gifts, alright. Tomorrow you get the other."

"Oh, it has to be leather wrist cuffs."

Louis smirks when Harry's palm pats the top of a flat, cardboard box.

"Oh! Oh, perhaps not!" He giggles, eyes open this time as he pulls out the box. White, no label again. "No birthday wrapping? Shame on you." His smile hasn't left his lips, now palming the flat box, roughly a foot long. "I think I know what this is."

"I got an assistant to wrap it up, so… nothing too crazy."

And Harry squints, giggling to himself. "Okay. Um… huh! Okay, let's see!"

A delivery just in time for his birthday.

When Louis realized Japanese lingerie was unexplored territory, a lightbulb went off in his head like a shining beam to guide him through the dark. Oli's the one with too much time on his hands, but Louis decided to make some out his schedule so he could pick out something special for Harry himself from an online Japanese shop. Google Translate did the job. That was long before his first trip to Japan, knowing the overseas shipment would take some time to arrive. But it's been sitting at home in London waiting for their return, safe and sound. And Oli didn't disappoint with the wrapping and clever hiding spot. 

Everything is perfect. And as Harry pulls the lingerie set out from the box, it's the first time both of them are laying their sights on it. 

And Harry is _ecstatic_.

" _Louis_!!"

Bullseye.

Louis got Harry a Risa Magli rosy pink set that consisted of a bra and panties with pink flowers and mint green leaves. Pink lace around the flowery cups stretching to the back, and adorned as loose trimmings along the leg openings of the panties. It had a vintage feel, which Louis can't remember embodying any recent lingerie sets he'd bought Harry. Risa Magli makes _very_ pretty lingerie. Soft, girly, frilly designs in cotton, silk, lace, flowers. Nothing kinky— modest, even. Nothing transparent, no garter belts or cut-out panties. Every piece in the catalog hugged the models' breasts and bums with dignity. Shy, like a virgin feeling sexy for the first time. Louis liked the vibe of that. Something different from Agent Provocateur and the 'fuck-me' thongs.

By the way that Harry's hugging the lingerie to his chest and having himself a goofy giggle fit, Louis considers this another great success. "Do you like it?" he asks anyway, putting his hands in his hoodie's pocket like he's nervous, just to hear Harry say,

"Yes!" And he rushes over to smother Louis in kisses, all warm and soft in his bathrobe. "Thank you, honeybun! I love it, I love it."

"Happy early birthday, sweetheart." Many kisses back, and Harry makes his way back to the kitchen table to have a look at his new lingerie with better lighting. Laid out on the table it can be done better justice than hugging it tight, no doubt. 

"It's so beautiful. Oh God, I love it. I love it so much."

But most importantly, it's the same one Louis ordered and just as pretty as the picture he saw online. Admittedly, he was worried about ordering wrong or Oli making a mistake. But this has been a mighty end to Harry's pre-birthday before tomorrow's flight to Japan. Another party there and another gift. Well done, Louis. Pat on the shoulder with his own hand. No mistakes for this surprise— everything as planned.

Well. Maybe not everything.

"They're padded!"

"Padded? What's that mean?"

It means that Harry's giggling with the cups held firmly in his hands, so Louis figures it must be a good thing. He's taking off his robe right in the kitchen, setting it on the table before handing Louis the bra. "Can you put it on me, love?" he asks, standing completely naked.

Louis's never really done that before. "Of course, baby." He has his first close look at the bra now in his hands. It's impossibly soft and smells crisp and fresh. Lovely, perfect for Harry. "Can't wait to see you in this." His thumbs touch over the lace, the silk, the embroideries along the outside of the bra.

And then he feels it.

The thick cushion lining the bottom of each cup on the inside.

Padding.

Louis can't have a reaction to that— he won't allow it. It doesn't stop him from thinking about it over and over like a slap to the face. A kick in the gut. Squeezing the cushions at his fingertips, he can only think of Harry's excitement about it— about this. Padding. His lingerie's never had it before. 'I didn't mean to buy you a bra like this,' he couldn't possibly tell him. Even though it's the loudest thought banging in his head. 'I didn't want your chest to—' "Arms out, darling." 

Harry takes a seat on the table and outstretches his arms. Louis moves closer to slip the bra on. No thoughts, chalkboard clean, canvas white and free from anything awful. Harry just watches him take hold of the straps and guide his hands through. Crouch a bit, get closer. 

"They're getting bigger."

"What?"

Harry's looking up at him with those soft, doe eyes. For a moment Louis believes he didn't say anything at all. But then he watches him look down at his chest, and the cleavage formed from having his shoulders brought together and his arms held out. "It's all fat. They look like little tits. Do you like them?"

It's so incredibly forward to Louis that he forgets Harry could mean to be self-deprecating. And shamefully, he finds himself hoping that he is. Should he disagree and comfort him? Agree and celebrate? What was the right answer? The honest one is, "They really are bigger." 

And they really do look like little tits in the bra.

3 months. All fat. 3 months. All fat.

"Yeah." Harry's smiling and Louis won't overlook it. But at the same time, he won't look at all. 

Because the padding's doing what it's supposed to. And Louis can't focus on much else. Mostly because he's terrified of what else is running through his mind. And as he clips on the back of the bra, he wonders what's running through Harry's mind. How different they could both be. How different Harry could be from him. In that moment, anything but fleeting.

Louis doesn't realize he's squeezing Harry's fat pecs through the bra until he hears Harry giggling about it. So he has to smile, has to pay attention. 

Because he's into this. He loves it. He's still into Harry. He still loves him.

Or maybe he's just afraid he doesn't. Somehow. Like it could be possible. A cancerous cell, a failed test scan after hopeful odds.

"They look so big in this! Aaaa."

Harry's so happy.

"What do you think? Do you really like it?"

"Yeah." Louis can't remember telling him that he did. He steps back and has a proper look at Harry from where he sits his bare ass on the table, adjusting his pecs so they sit higher on the padding. Bigger. More realistic with the position of the crease. Louis understands now why Harry liked the line of hair growing down the center of his chest. And his face feels hot. 

"Oop. The knickers."

Louis walks over quickly and hands them to Harry so he doesn't have to move. Harry's quick to inspect the crotch as he stands on his feet. Stretches it out.

"It's wide."

"Yeah?"

Harry grins and starts to step into the pink panties. Louis doesn't mean for his smile to slip when Harry isn't looking. 

"What's, um— what's that good for? The wide…"

"I've got big fucking bollocks."

When he laughs a little Harry doesn't join him. Instead he busies himself with the large bulge in his knickers, and the effort he needs to put into motion to make it go away. Bends his knees. Hand goes in flat. The disappearing act is evident when Harry pulls his hand back out to reveal a flat surface, smiling at his success. Smiling at the success of every task he felt needed fulfilling in order to feel he was in harmony at last. Things of miracles and magic; suddenly he's so powerful.

"How do I look?"

Louis doesn't even care about moral principles when he thinks,

_Not like a girl._

It felt mocking. 

It felt cruel.

"I love you, baby." And he tells himself that makes up for it, a penance paid immediately with his sincerest regret. Effort he could've put into not thinking the worst in the first place— except, he chose not to. Too tired not to, like he never has been. Not really. Louis won't think about that either. "Love you lots."

Shapely breasts and a missing cock. Hard tummy full of cake and hips narrow, waist dipping just barely. His posture is still so terrible. And it's what makes his chest so much bigger. Big back. Big breasts.

Louis's just heavy eyes, hands clenched in his hoodie's pocket. "Are you happy?"

"Very happy!" Harry rushes over to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "I love it, darling. I love you. Thank you so much."

Louis quickly wraps his arms around his waist and lets his face hide in his neck. "S' all I want, is for you to be happy."

"Well I know what I want."

Louis doesn't move. His face just goes pale. "What do you want?"

"I wanna look at myself in the mirror!"

And he tries not let his sigh of relief make a sound.

There's a big mirror in the hall. He leaves Harry to it, listening to his shuffling footsteps on the wooden floor disappear with the echo. It's a bit of a far walk. Big house. Louis passes by gray walls adorned with massive art pieces and tables with charming plants and household clutter as he follows suit. At last he gets sight of Harry at his decided spot, standing before a mirror sizeable enough where he can inspect every detail.

Not much for posing. Louis notices immediately that Harry's posture is timid, feet together, elbows back as he plays with his fingers like if his rings were still on.

That's no good. That's no good at all.

Louis knows better than to let Harry see that he's noticed. So here comes his cuddlebug, body pressed behind him and arms around his belly. Chin on his shoulder. Harry hooks his arms over his on his belly to cuddle into the sleeves of his hoodie. And they rock gently together. Louis looks at Harry, and Harry looks at himself.

"Imagine if someone walked in and… saw me in it, right?" 

He's shrinking in his skin, in Louis's arms. Face deadpan as he looks at his chest. Louis gives his neck a kiss, chin back to his shoulder. Tells his reflection, "I think very few people would be happy to be caught in their underwear."

Harry hums with a little smile, head down. "You're sweet."

"You look lovely, baby. Hm? You don't think so?"

He stays quiet for a minute. "No one wants to think about me like this. This is, like… the worst thing, that…anyone could imagine me doing."

"Wearing underwear in your own house?"

"Crossdressing in front of my boyfriend."

Louis tries not to frown. Little voice, hands running over the tattooed skin on Harry's stomach. "Who gives a fuck what other people think? You know, why put a name on it? It's your clothes. You wear what you want, love" And he can tell Harry's eyes keep scanning himself, the silhouette of his body. The synopsis of it all. The way he licks his lips, bites the bottom one— he's meek and solemn in his thoughts. When he considers,

"It's not what I'm supposed to be doing. No matter what… Me, the way my life is… You know, my life." Gives Louis's arm a squeeze. "This life."

And Louis wishes there was a path ahead of him. But Harry's adrift with miles between them and no momentum to make Louis move closer.

Because Harry doesn't want it. Standing in his arms, he wants distance. A sense of invisibility when he confesses with a sniff, "Harry Styles is mad. Harry Styles is…Jesus, I'm getting fucking sick of hearing that."

"Your name?" _I don't._ Wouldn't that be a stupid thing to say? Louis keeps quiet.

"It's not mine anymore, is it. It's a fucking brand. And… I'm bad… for my own, like… business." It makes Harry's brow twitch. "Which is my life. Now. This is what it is. I don't know…"

And he just walks off. Louis probably shouldn't have let him. 

He's sure of it when he sees that Harry's returned to the kitchen and put his lavender bathrobe back on. Covered up. Arms crossed. Louis feels tense and upset, contained to something manageable so he can be strong like he wants to be. Can't stand not to be. 

Not when Harry's sinking. Slipping into something dim and cold. Back turned. Quiet when he confesses to the table,

"I'm tired of people looking at me. And talking to me. And like… thinking about me."

What brought this on? What did Louis say? Was it a mistake to gift him the lingerie? The greatest part of him is desperate to leave and stop their moping— isn't it so unproductive? It's his birthday tomorrow. What is he meant to say? The most horrific part is his helplessness, the absence of value in anything he could tell Harry to stop the bleeding. This isn't how he grew up solving conflict— and fine, he's adjusted to Harry's coping mechanisms, the complexities in the wiring. He's never minded. Never cared. 

But he's so tired. And nothing's working. Neck deep in something burning on the skin it clings to.

Louis stays put. Stays silent. Leaving Harry in the illusion of anonymity as he keeps away. Like the only thing to know his secrets are the cold kitchen cutlery and a sinking slice of birthday cake.

Harry's fingers tap on the table in a tick, the only outlet for his anxiety within his flawless composure. Because wouldn't it be awful? If he was shaking and heaving and breaking apart into pieces when he says, "I wish I'd never met so many people, and that all the people in the world would just fucking forget about me."

What can Louis say? Harry won't even turn around and tell him to his face.

"Cos I think, then, everything wouldn't be so complicated. Everyone cares what everyone thinks of me, you know? It just matters so fucking much that, like… everyone is satisfied with me, and what I do, and what I say. And who I am. I’m… fucking no one. I'm not anybody."

But Harry Styles keeps his cool. His world is fine— no need for Louis to intervene in a little bloodletting for the fever. The cues are all there, the silent language that tells Louis, ' _Let me think I'm fine. I can do it if you let me'._ No gloom here. No crisis, mind sound and in control, tight at the stitchings without a thread out of place.

"Like, underneath everything. I wish I was somewhere else. Maybe another… planet. And I could start all over."

Louis has to think that's fine. Especially when Harry turns to look over his shoulder. Smiling.

"You’ll come with me, right? You can stay! You’re not getting rid of me that easy!"

Laughing a little as he watches Louis come over quick to be at his side. Harry holds his hand out and finds peace in the feeling of their fingers linking together. Louis finds it cathartic. Wishing tirelessly that this all ends so they can get back to their tender affection. Pretty panties and birthday cake— it can't go wrong. It doesn't have to.

At least Harry's in his arms again. Hands to his waist, the table to their right. At least he can see his face, at least he can smell his aftershave. Fluffy lavender fleece and a black hoodie hold on, and there's comfort. In Harry's green eyes sparkling something phony, in his dimpled cheeks for a bashful smile. He tells Louis, "I wanna meet you in, like…very possible lifetime."

And Louis can't help smile back.

"Every single one." Harry's just so proud to say. "If I could have one wish it would be that. You’re, like… the constant. You know? I just want you all the time. I know you don't think it seems like it."

Louis can't help but frown. "Why would you think that's what I think?"

Harry says it quiet. "...We keep fighting, don't we?"

"We've always fought— we're a couple of dickheads."

"No, I… I keep starting shit and it's my fault. I keep asking… stupid… shit. Stupid questions, I don't know. I keep messing up."

"No." Louis shakes his head, hands rubbing a bit at Harry's waist now. "No, no way. Not at all. It's not your fault, baby." 

And Louis can't help it. 

He rambles. "Everybody fucking fights, Jesus. Me and me sisters, we've fought. It's nothing. And you know, I’m fucking clingy." Cracking a smile when he sees that Harry is pleased. Moving his hands to clasp them with Harry's. So warm, sweaty with the worry. "You know, I…I'm clingy as shit so you're not getting rid of me that easy, either."

Harry smiles.

"Shit. No fucking way, not a chance." Louis has to look at Harry when he says it. Punctuation, sealing his words so they don't stray. Harry's just so pretty. So inexplicably disillusioned without the courtesy of answering why. Louis isn't so good with words, suddenly. A bit clumsy when he admits, "You’re like… I'm like a little kid with that like, one fucking stuffie that they lose their, like— th-they go absolutely rabid without it. They just lose it."

And Harry can't help laugh. Good, Louis thinks. Nodding to himself as he looks down.

"That sounds extreme doesn't it? Sounds extreme, yeah." And he quickly looks Harry in the eye again. "But fuck it."

"Mm." And this time Harry turns his head down, swaying a bit in the fidget. A smile. Louis hopes it's honest.

"I love you, Harry. I'm… I'm mad about you. Don't want nobody else to have you."

"Well, no one does."

Louis just sighs deep. "I know… I’m just insecure, is what it is. If I’m being completely honest it's just the classic, you know… it— it’s feelings of insecurity and inadequacy and all that, all that good shit." Would that make Harry happy to hear? Louis goes for it all, every truth running its course past his lips. "That's on me, sweetheart. I lose me head sometimes. It's not your fault. I’ve got that everywhere, baby, with everything I do. I’ll admit it. Right? …I'll admit it."

"You’re more than adequate. You’re fucking perfect. You’re everything to me, you always have been. From the first day, I… wanted you to be with me forever and… I got really fucking lucky. I swear I would've left me _years_ ago, because… Jesus, I’m… a fucking nightmare. I’m just the worst, I hate me."

Louis doesn't mean for his eyes to go wide. Likely why Harry won't look up at him. "No, dont," he says softly. Doesn't wonder if he wants to stop Harry's low self esteem, or the fact he has to hear about it. It shouldn't be debatable which one he believes in. But then again, there isn't time to debate at all. He just wants Harry to know, "You're the best person, me favorite person. You're the best. You're me best boy."

Does that matter? Will it? Louis is quickly finding it hard to be optimistic anymore. At least in the moment. Harry doesn't care about what he says. And he isn't as surprised as he remembers being in the past. Already he misses it. 

Misses a lot of things as he hears Harry confess to the ground.

"I carry that with me all the time. It's just something I always think about and, like... sometimes I just can't fucking believe it. I don't know if I'd want to do…anything, without you. I’m a mess and I'm weak, and… so much about me has gone to shit. Just, inside."

What did that mean? There's no space for Louis to ask. His desperation sits without priority. The only thing he can extend energy on anymore is composure. _"I lose me head sometimes."_ It's impossible to not ask answers of Harry. But it's the only thing he knows Harry really wants him to do.

When Harry lifts his head, this time, he finally looks sad. "I’m so different from when we first met."

It doesn't feel like he's speaking anymore. Murmurs, whispers. Secrets never meant to leave their locked chest.

"And… I just… I keep thinking you’re just gonna get fucking sick of me, and leave. Just leave me."

It's a twist in Louis's belly to hear those words spoken. How long had he been thinking that? How long would he have never known? _Why didn't you fucking tell me all of this earlier?_ Wondering where his fault was that made Harry so unwilling to admit his fears before. 

_"I'm so different from when we first met."_

_No you're not, no you're not._

"That's never gonna happen, sweetheart. I'm not leaving you— Never. Don't ever think that, don't want you ever thinking that." Knowing too well he's begging in vain.

Harry isn't swayed at all. Brow furrowed, fidgeting in place. "I need you too much…" he murmurs. Again to his feet as Louis reaches to clasp their hands together. "I put you through hell and it's all I keep fucking doing, is not being worth it."

"Don't ever think that. None of that's true, baby." Louis takes a step closer, never looking away from the eyes avoiding his gaze. It's okay, he thinks. Let Harry swing back and forth from his comfort zone to the light. He hears him all the same, whether he believes him or not. Louis wants the words to leave his mouth anyway— "You don't do anything except make me the happiest person I could be. What you're thinking is…it's never gonna be true." His voice is soft and rich, warm like the morning sun. "I love you, Harry." And he shakes his head. "Nothing's ever gonna change that. It's you and me, always. Always gonna be by your side."

It feels like the layers cloaking Harry's core have finally thinned to reveal the moment's truth. His cheeks get red first. Then his nose. And finally, his eyes. One look into Louis's and they twinkle with water, before a blink sends them running down his cheeks.

"Nobody else loves me…"

And it quickly gets so much worse after that.

"I know they don't. Nobody knows me except you." Nothing heavy, nothing loud. It's submission and sheer exhaustion. Breaking apart like he's paper thin. "I…" Harry sniffs, and whimpers, "I _need_ you, so so _bad_ and I… I don't know, I-I don't—" A sob he couldn't hold back. Swallowing as Louis begins to rub his shoulder lovingly. "I’m talking so much shit, so much stupid shit. I'm sorry, I'm so fucking stupid and, and… I, I don't know, I— I fuck everything up and—" 

Something in him breaks off. Or maybe, he's spent the last of himself still left standing. 

"I’m just happy you haven't left me…!"

Now weightless. Now crying.

"I’m happy o-on every day that— you don't leave me…!"

Louis's helpless. But he isn't thwarted— he pulls Harry into his arms tight like it's instinct. Maybe something inside him shriveled until he was laid bare, too. With eyes closed he whispers, "I’m not leaving you." And Harry holds him back. "I’m not leaving you, baby. I’m never leaving you. I love you."

It echoes through the walls of their oversized house. "I love you so much…!"

"I love you. I love you."

And held in a desperate, longing embrace, Louis feels heavy down to his bones. He wishes Harry weren't crying in his ear. He wishes he was still happily eating birthday cake before probably falling asleep. Louis just thinks about it over and over and over again. Because it hasn’t him like this in a long time. 

Harry, poor baby—

He's just so unhappy.

"Can we go to bed?"

Birthday boy gets whatever he wants.

  
  
  


"Shall we take this off, darling?"

"No…"

"Okay."

"Do I look nice?"

"You look lovely, baby. So so lovely."

Louis didn't have much doubt of what Harry wanted them to do, but his parted legs made sure his intentions were clear. The invitation was there as he watched Louis walk to the edge of the bed. Accepted plea— Louis takes off his hoodie and the shirt underneath it, his sweatpants tossed aside, and nestles into the warm space between Harry's thighs.

It's nice to just hold each other and kiss. A gauze wrap, a healing hand. Remedies. Feverish skin of the good kind. Something good in between— finally.

It's fine if he's happy.

When Harry places both of Louis's hands to cup and squeeze the empty space of his padded chest. Whimpering. Clumsy tugs to get his panties off with as little time apart as possible. Yanking his body on top of him, wrapping his strong thighs around his waist so hard it hurts. But Louis holds no complaints, because

it's fine if he's happy.

"W-Want you in my pussy…"

Will it make him happy? Can it? That's fine. Louis's cock is hard in no time as he thrusts against Harry's hand. Every inch of skin is burning hot and feeding the flames of his own desire, wherever it comes from, whatever it is it wants in its dying fire. Everything, all of it— all of Harry. He takes him in with kisses and hands running over his skin. Harry's warm, he's hot. And he's making those noises he doesn't like again. Sounding squeaky, sounding like a

girl

again.

It's fine if he's happy.

Sex. 

"You're making me so wet, Lou…"

There's a different vibe to him. The way he moves his body, the sounds he makes. Unfamiliar. Like a cold touch running goosebumps. Looking down at him, hands planted on the mattress as he thrusts his cock in and out— there's something else, a seam. His blue eyes give a shining gaze like he's trying to look through it all. Look at Harry, at the figure he's known since he was 18. Why wouldn't it be there? Louis finds himself thrusting harder.

“Fuck that pussy… Fuck that pussy…”

It's fine if he's happy. Harry's hands run up and down Louis's sweaty back, clutching like he'll leave him if he doesn't. So desperate to keep him close, keep him inside. His eyes are still red from the crying and they're gorgeous under his haze. Overwhelmed, oversensitive through his skin. His high voice squeaking,

"Oh, Lou…! O-Oh…!" 

Louis definitely hasn't heard it like that before. His eyes stray and he doesn't know why. The headboard, the pillow. And finally his eyes fall closed. Focusing on the feeling of Harry's hole squeezing against his cock, the faint knocking of the headboard hitting the wall. Is he fucking him that hard? Louis doesn't realize he's exhausted until he's too out of breath to moan. All he hears is,

"Ungh…"

And it's fine.

" _Ungh…_ "

It's fine.

" _Ungh…!_ "

Louis's feet dig into the mattress as he pushes forward to fuck Harry harder. Distracted without anything on the mind to create an image he should be focused on. All there is his Harry. And yet, Louis feels like he's searching for water in the desert. Was Harry the missing rain? Or the empty, lifeless terrain slipping between his fingers when he reaches down to hold on? Nothing to grab. Nothing there.

It's fine.

Everything is fine 

if he's 

happy.

"Wait— Shit."

"What?"

"Ah, fuck."

Well, that's never happened before.

Harry's horrified enough his eyes go wide. It might be rightfully so. The air feels so thick neither of them can breathe. There's a sound when it sits solid, freezing in time and holding everything still. Very still.

It's the first time in their relationship that Louis lost an erection mid-sex. His cock slowly shrunk until it couldn't stay inside Harry anymore, pushing uselessly against his hole without passage. Louis didn't expect it. But looking down at the somewhat remarkable sight, it almost feels like it's the only thing he ever did. Just breathing. He doesn't know what to do. 

"Yeah. Sorry."

Harry does. He pushes Louis off from on top of him and hurries off the bed.

"Come on, it's not you."

Of course he's upset. Louis feels like a hypocrite for asking anything else of him. Part of him is so resigned he could just leave Harry to overreact without protest. But it isn't until he's standing, finally turned around to see what Harry's doing, that his heart aches a bit. And there's just no way— no way he could be willing to stand by idle.

Harry's taking off his lingerie like it's burning on his skin. Frantic. Face twisted and red.

"Baby, it wasn't that." 

Scoffing, "Y-Yeah…!"

No, it's hitting Louis now. The severity of this dawning catastrophe, his heart beginning to pound. He sees no choice but to put his clothes back on. His sweatpants. "Jesus, what do you want me to say? I'm sorry." His hoodie. "I can't—" He sighs, a groan of frustration as he ruffles his hair. "For fuck's sake, it's not a big deal." And he turns around to walk to Harry's side, expecting him to be standing in tears, waiting for consolation for this new blow to his self esteem.

But Harry's pulled out the drawer to their dresser. A pair of sweatpants. A shirt. Socks. And Louis knows it's clothing he never puts on to stay in the house.

"What are you doing?" His stomach drops. But Harry doesn't stop getting dressed. And the second Louis steps forward to reach out to him, he darts past him.

And out the bedroom door.

"Baby, where are you going? Harry!"

He's crying, dripping from his voice. "Stop following me," rushed as fast as he steps gets away from Louis. 

And Louis's too exhausted from the work he put into fucking to sprint without getting out of breath. His heart beats so fast it's choking his throat. It feels like for every step he takes Harry takes two, and then a million more. "Where are you going?" 

Out into the hallway.

"Huh?"

Down the stairs.

And it's then that Louis's eyes go wide.

Wide.

"Are you fucking _leaving_?!"

Harry's hands reach up to grab his head. "I-I don't…" And he disappears into the hall. 

"Jesus, I'm _sorry_ ! I'm **_sorry_ ** _!_!" Louis's frantic as he rushes downstairs. Face red, blue eyes wide in the panic. "What do you want me to fucking say?!" In the

outrage.

"I didn't fucking cry when you couldn't get it up, you fucking _hypocrite_!"

By the time Louis's feet touch the floorboards he's stomping on them. The kitchen is bright with the second set of lights now turned on. Louis had an idea of what Harry might be doing before he even made it in, but seeing it happen is a sucker punch regardless. "What the fuck are you doing?" 

Digging through their drawers.

Every word feels like it's manifesting without his input. "Fucking say something to me!" Brow furrowed deep. "You fucking _say_ something!"

"I'm not angry, okay?" Harry pleads, his back turned to him. Trembling hands cause a ruckus as he searches drawer after drawer "I-I just— I'm— gimme a while—"

"A _while_?!"

"P-p-please. I feel like...!" 

And something in Louis snaps. "Like _what_ ?! Huh?! And what the fuck do _I_ feel like?!!" This time Louis walks over to confront him. Maybe he doesn't mean to, but the space surrounding him is hot like a flame. Burning when he's just feet away. Harry rushes on. And Louis feels his heart beat at the same pace. "Does that fucking matter?! Does that _ever_ fucking matter?! You don't see me fucking crying about it!"

Keys. What Harry was looking for he found in a messy drawer full of junk. The sound of it only sends Louis into a bigger frenzy. 

"Oh come _on_ ! You don't— Harry! _Fuck_!!"

Harry leaves, rushing by Louis with tears in his eyes. Louis isn't about to stay put either. It doesn't feel possible to think of the past or future to be. The world feels gone beyond the mansion walls. High ceilings and chandeliers make it all glamorous, luxurious— 

this demise.

This calamity.

"Why do you have to fucking be like this?! _Huh?!_ " Louis's voice breaks in the rage, ranting, "Making a big fucking deal over fucking _everything_ like I'm such a fuck-up every fucking day ruining your life, making your life complete _shit_ ! I'm fucking _sick_ of it! I'm sick of this _shit_!!"

It isn't obvious right away, but a moment of silence unmasks it in the echo of their house: Harry's beginning to hyperventilate. stumbling in his socks, fleeing, searching. And with a whimper he turns to Louis and waves his hand in and out towards his chest to beg for a ceasefire.

"Oh yeah—yeah, isn't it always about that? Always about that, eh? I can't say a fucking thing to you— I can't even _fuck_ you without you bringing in the fucking waterworks now! The fuck is wrong with you?!"

The confrontation feels so foreign. And Harry, barely put together, finds it in him to confess. "Everything is f-fucking wrong w— me, apparently…!"

Wrong answer. Louis sneers. "Yeah I just hate everything about you now, don't I? I fucking hate you, right? That your next bit? I fucking _love_ you!"

"I fucking bet…!" And Harry just sobs. "You're a fucking liar…! I know you don't give a _shit_ _about me anymore_!!" Saying that has made him crumble even more.

Taking a step back when he sees Louis

ignite. 

Scorching. Ablaze like if Harry's words poured gasoline over smoldering wood. With wide eyes and flushed cheeks it isn't even rage. Louis would've preferred that to this.

Anything but the fire engulfing him.

"Oh, fucking _go_ ! _Fuck_ you, **_fuck_ ** _this_!!" 

Panting so hard a hiccup forces a pause. Can't stay still. Can't stop. 

"Fucking talking about me like that now! Fucking unbelievable, you piece of shit!" With eyes watering. "After **_everything_ ** I _fucking_ do, you fucking dare tell me that!" 

Harry's just mousy. Like he doesn't want to say it. "All I am is a fucking… problem to you." Sad in the eyes when he does, speaking even softer. "You— j-just sick of me, you fucking hate me, a-all the time now…! You d-don't— you don't love me anymore, not anymore…! A-Admit it, okay?"

Louis's voice rips through the air something violent like it's never been. "I fucking do **_everything_ ** for you!!" And it burns with him. " _Everything_ for you! Fucking **_living_ ** _for you_ …!! And you go and say that about **_me_ **!!"

Harry just stands there and takes it. 

"Saying I hate you, that I don't care, I d-don't— don't _love_ you?! How could you?! What the fuck do you _want_ ?!" Louis sobs, begging. "What more do you fucking **_want_ ** _from me_ ?!!" Pleading. "I have given you _everything_ I have!!" Crying. "I don't have _anything_ **_else_ ** _..._!! 

Harry doesn't say a thing. His breathing is jagged and his cheeks are bright red. It feels unusual, but not even for a moment does he look away. 

"Go. Fucking go."

Something breaks apart with a deafening silence. Louis looks pulled out from inside himself as a sudden calmness takes him. He sniffs deep, wipes his red eyes. And he takes a step back.

"I'll have meself a good night's sleep, yeah? Good fucking riddance. I don't fucking want you here."

What Harry was giving Louis time to say, he never did. Whatever it was he wanted to hear— futile. A bomb bounced off the wall and blown in both their faces. Two fools chasing their tails, both surprised to finally land a bite. "It's what you always wanted, right? I'm finally—" Harry hiccups. "Finally out of your hair. You don't want me around?"

"Get the fuck out."

Louis looks off, shifting his weight. And he takes a step back. A step away.

The script just didn't play out the way it always had. And though Louis stands at the epicenter of this disaster, he can't help but feel like the playbook was tossed in the flames long ago. Back when the manuscript mattered, and fights were always resolved with a proud bow facing empty seats.

"I said get the _fuck_ **_out_**!!"

Louis doesn't realize he's standing on ashes until the smoke clears for the first time. Nothing left but burnt bark and air that's hard to breathe. The worst part isn't the green gone gray in an empty horizon. It isn't the pain of a 2nd degree. It isn't the smell of cinder.

The worst part is that he isn't holding a match. 

The sound of gravel being crushed under an SUV meets Louis's ears with an uneasy peace of mind. Watching the headlights shining past the windows without moving. Until finally the atmosphere runs cold.

As much as he wants to blame himself, blame the repressed rage that exploded without warning and drove Harry out that door and past the gates— it just isn't there. There was no justification, but he didn't hold the accountability that gives him the power of a swift resolution. No jail time for this criminal. He sits on his sins without closure, nowhere for his guilt to be except devotedly by his side, haunting him in the echo of an empty mansion.

_"Would you like me if I was a girl?"_

_“You wouldn't care if it went up to C cup?!”_

_"You like that pussy, don't you?"_

_"They look like little tits. Do you like them?"_

Circles, circles.

_I fucked up. I fucked up. I fucked up._

But Louis's second person takes over the podium quick.

A different claim.

_I lied._

_I lied._

_I lied._

Harry left his phone on the kitchen table, right where he clipped his bra on. Right next to his cake. The early happy birthday.

  
  
  
  


"I read that chicken by-product's better for the dog, than real chicken."

"Where the fuck did you read that?"

"One of me mates, he's stressing out over some um, thorough—purebred, um… some dog, a Greyhound. He's trying to get it to mate with this other bloke's Greyhound but he can't get his dick up in the other dog's cunt. You know, erectile dysfunction. Keeps going on about how it's gotta be a problem with the food."

The young men at the table all snort and chuckle. It's a stupid enough suggestion.

"The dog food?"

"Yeah."

"That's such bullshit."

"I know."

"Oi oi. Drinks!"

That gets the collective in harmony, conversation paused for celebration as hands reach for the latest round of alcohol to be consumed tonight. There's Oli, Calvin, and three brunettes. Pasty from the winter, pink from the booze. Having the pub to themselves makes them a lively bunch. Good moods, funny talks. Nice Northern boys with pricey cologne for the get-together. Something special but ordinary at the same time;

Louis always picks nice pubs.

It's always a good time when he comes home, and the gang get together like the same school boys getting shitfaced on the Black Label and Guinness stolen from their parents' stash. Seven dress-down boys in t-shirts and hoodies, local beer on the table and a cloud of cigarette smoke wrapped around them in the booth seats. It's nice when Louis lets them know he's a twenty-seven year old multimillionaire with VIP passes, private planes, and pricey vacation spots to fuck and get drunk in. But it's just as nice when he's just a _lad_. Merciless jokester, shortest one of the bunch. Talking about his work as a musician like he's just a couch-surfing indie kid figuring things out on his own, and isn't currently on break from promotional gigs at BBC Radio and X Factor, new single #3 on the iTunes charts. No, he wouldn't even go to a Yorkshire pub wearing designer.

He does usually shower, though. And maybe he talks more. And drinks a little less.

"Dog breeders are all a bunch of cunts, let me just say that," he mumbles with a cigarette between his lips, pulling out his pack of Marlboros from his backpack.

"His name's Danny," his friend says. "He's alright."

"But I mean he's not posh or anything, is he?" Louis puts out the stub left of his cigarette on the ashtray and swiftly pulls out another stick from the box. "The breeders I went to before I got me dog—" And he rolls his eyes. "They was the fucking worst. I had one ask me if I had a _'steady'_ job as a musician, like if I was fucking broke and living with me parents." He lights that cigarette and has himself a chuckle with his mates. "A right bitch, she was."

"You was looking for a Labradoodle from the start? Or did you start with a different breed."

Dog talk. Louis won't mind. After a puff or two he switches to have his first chug of beer from the second round. "I wanted a Spaniel, actually. English Springer, or Cocker."

"Oh those are nice. Beautiful dogs."

"Yeah."

"But, um…"

No, wait.

Louis's walked right into a corner he doesn't like. It's a bit of a blacklist. But the cheap beer has made his usually sharp sense of judgement as hazy as his vision. And he has to rub his eyes.

It's annoying how quiet the table is. Maybe he's giving someone a chance to talk over him. But he's looking to weasel out of the conversation for sure when he takes a long drag of his cigarette again, enough to burn through almost half of it. Blows out heavy.

"My, um…

And ashes it.

"Me girlfriend, she didn't want hair all over the house, so… it had to be a poodle mix." 

And it's time for another drink, looking ahead and avoiding the eyes of his friends.

"Cos they don't shed, right."

"No point in getting a Spaniel-Poodle mix, eh? The long coat's the nice part. So I just went with a Labrador mix. He's a good boy, no regrets, you know?"

"Gotta keep the woman happy!"

"Is she the same one? You two still together, yeah?"

Louis takes another drag, dreadful. And Calvin's been looking at him for a long time. One of the other boys is about to add on to the topic, but he's quick to take over instead. "Oi, is your dog fixed?" he asks Louis. "You thinking about selling pups one day?"

"What, you think he needs the extra cash?"

They all have a laugh over it.

"I wouldn't have a problem like your boy Danny," Louis tells his other friend. "Me dog can hump the shit out of me leg. Fucking big dog, too! Fuck!"

Even better laughs, cackling high-pitched and drunk, obnoxious.

"Oi, what causes that— the other thing?"

"What other thing?"

"When the dog can't get it up. That's biological shit, innit? What, genetics?"

"It's hormones. It's a hormonal problem. Too much estrogen."

Louis chest freezes up. And he moves his gaze to Calvin, who's all too eager to play storyteller.

"Me old man had that," he starts, slurred enough to sound stupid. But the group's engaged. "Too much estrogen, that's the, um— the female hormone, yeah? It's what gives women their tits and, like… hips and shit. Poor lad— his dick started shrinking right into his balls. Couldn't get hard anymore."

Five young men make faces and cringe in lament. One stays cold and quiet. Drinking. And no one takes note with a topic of interest to make them chatty. Crude talk, cock talk.

"What the fuck do you do about that?" 

"Testosterone. Fixed him right up. You reckon they make that for dogs?"

"Don't know. A shot of that's better than organic dog food, yeah? Your friend's a fucking idiot, Christ."

"So your dad was turning into a woman, eh?"

That was a good one. They laugh hard enough to make the bartender take notice.

"Fuck off!" Calvin's cackling. "Fuuuck off!"

"Poor fucker was ready to grow tits and a cunt and everything! Fucking hell!"

"That is some proper fucking Frankenstein shit, mate. It's like a horror movie, innit. Could be like a zombie movie, when you come to think of it. The whole thing, I mean. Fucking trannies."

"A slow transformation without a cure, is um… I believe the qualification for a zombie movie."

"I don't wanna be a woman, what the fuck."

"No going back, either. Although that's true for the real ones, yeah? What if they change their mind? Just one day, you regret the whole fucking thing. You're just… a castrated man with fucking tits, aren't you?"

"Jesus, fuck… I bet that happens all the time."

"Eugh, just imagine that."

"I'd kill meself, fuck it."

"Right? Honest to God. If I— Hey!"

"Move."

Calvin gets a hard shove in the shoulder, and turns to see Louis pushing him and their friend beside him to slide out the booth.

"I said fucking _move_ , both of yous!"

The good mood of the moment comes down with a fiery crash. Louis's too respected of a figure to get cussed out for it. And it's dead quiet. His friends just sober up and watch him grab his backpack with a furrowed brow and wide eyes. Jaw clenched. 

"Mate."

"Louis, what happened?"

Face red. Wet. He sniffs once. Wipes his eye.

"You alright, mate?"

Louis's got such a fire in him. One slit from a splinter and it sets the air behind him ablaze, making him an unbearable figure to follow. A good enough defense mechanism. As he stomps away from the booth seats, his childhood clique is left stupid and confused, none of them moving another muscle. Out the door and into the night he goes. And they just don't like the feeling he's left them at all.

"The fuck's his problem?"

There is always one fool, though, who must fancy themself a smoke jumper in times of crisis. Even if they're just getting burned past the 1st degree without equipment to keep them safe.

"Oi! Louis!"

He doesn't stop.

"Wait up, I know you're not driving. Come on, mate, slow down."

Oli's such an idiot. But he can hold his drink better than Louis's ever been able to. And Louis must suppose he never had plans of being his own designated driver when he decided he'd get shitfaced with his friends to make some unspoken pain go away. 

They're still such pricks though. And they haven't got a clue.

Oli does, though. That might be a fatal liability more than anything else. But this time, it serves as a driver who knows better than to ask Louis to explain the cause of his upset. There's a lot he knows, but even more Louis would never let him. And thankfully, he's one piece of his childhood he can carry with him without concern— because Oli, he gets it. 

_It._

Calvin does too. Oli just happens to know a bit more of Louis's secrets. Enough to put missing pieces together faster, better, and without prying to make Louis ashamed of ever being known.

Enough that Louis's a bit grateful he helped his drunken self settle in the passenger seat, before he got behind the wheel and got the Range Rover on the midnight road.

"Want me to put on one of your stations? Spotify, or uh…"

"Don't sweat it, man."

"Okay…Can I put on one of me tunes—?"

"No."

"Yeah, okay. No problem."

"Don't touch me fucking radio."

"Yep, gotcha. No problem."

Oli's an alright guy. It's intuition that made him guess correctly that Louis wasn't in the mood to go home. He's been driving the dead quiet SUV on the highway for 43 minutes. The longer Louis goes without saying a word, the less it seems Oli is willing to break the silence. Surely the goofy-looking ginger must have his own things to do on a Friday night. And maybe Louis's sober enough to drive on his own. Still, Oli's got his hand on the steering wheel driving through A638, and Louis's got his seat leaned back with feet propped on the dashboard. And that's the way it stays.

At least, for about 7 minutes more.

"Where's me bag?" Louis's brought his feet down and his seat forward to search around the car floor. 

Oli takes a quick glance. "Oh, I put it in the backseat. Want me to—"

"I got it," Louis groans with a stretch back, reaching to the floor for his backpack.

But what he notices instead plants a melancholy cause. The muscles in his face go lax with the quiet of his mind, and all he does is look. And then, thoughtlessly, he's reaching out. It's been quiet this whole time. But somehow, Louis feels a real emptiness fall upon him once he grabs the item from the backseat and places it on his thighs.

All he wanted was his pack of smokes. He never wanted to remember this.

"What's that?"

Blank, ivory; gift paper sticking out, not too big. Louis holds it in his lap for a moment, feeling the thick paper crinkle lightly under his touch. And he just breathes, floating in that hollow space he's suspended in. And he reaches his hand inside. And he pulls out a flat, white box.

"What is that?"

Oli needs better light to make out a thing, because the occasional highway post is still leaving the item on Louis's lap a hopeless mystery.

Louis doesn't need light to know what it is. 

_"Now, this is one of two— one of two gifts, alright. Tomorrow you get the other."_

Risa Magli makes dresses, too. And with a pink floral and mint green lingerie set came a sun dress to go with it. Louis thought it was just perfect. And when he pulls out the dress from the box, lifting it up by the shoulders to meet his gaze, goosebumps run under his skin like pin pricks. 

It's just so pretty.

Harry would've loved it.

"Who's that for?"

Louis lets it drop back to the box, and just plays with the fabric between his fingers. "A girl," he says quietly. Like he's talking to the dress.

"You give good fucking gifts, you know that?" Oli chuckles. 

Louis finds the sentiment bittersweet. "Thanks." Smiling. Not really feeling any good.

"Hey, how'd Harry like me gift?"

Not smiling anymore. "I don't know," he says. And he faces the window to his left, not really looking at the view outside.

"He didn't open it? Or he didn't get it?"

"He's in Japan. I haven't seen him in a while."

Oli does a double take. "You weren't…" And he's gone so awkward suddenly. 

That only makes the color drain further from Louis's skin. 

"You spent his birthday apart?"

"Yeah."

It's a much, much bigger deal than Louis is trying to play off. And truthfully, Oli is going a bit mad trying not to ask, "What happened?" Of course he does anyway. He swallows, blinking out ahead at the road, anxious about the unspoken code being betrayed. Asking, quite pointedly, "You two u-uh, what, like… like, a fight?"

"Yeah."

"Not serious, is it?"

Was it? Louis answers honestly. "I don't know." Turning to look at the bunched pink dress again.

It witnesses him. It holds attention on him just as he holds it back. Everything is so vivid, yet oddly disconnected from what he could ever know. Like it's replaying something that never happened. Why does everything feel so long ago?

The weight of his suspended world has fallen on his shoulders with every intention of crushing him into the ground. And it does. It buries him in a hole marked with a gravestone, nothing engraved on the rock to indicate that he ever really mattered in the first place. Maybe it's true. At least, in the context of things had and things lost forever. Things he pushed away. Things he never would. Things he never did. 

At least, he thinks so. Doesn't he?

It's such a pretty dress.

He wanted it fit for a princess.

"Eh, probably not. You know, I know how you two get. Fucking lovers' quarrels, yeah? Proper married couples. Everybody goes through shit ultimately, lad. That's life, innit. But it's nothing in the end, you know what I mean? You look back and you figure that the argument, you know— it didn't even matter. Fucking stupid shit, you know? That's how it is with yous, uh… you two. You and Harry. I know. Give it time, lad. Eh? You'll see, it was just… you know… nothing. You're alright. Reminds me of a couple years back, on tour, you two were pissed off at each other over who poured us drinks at the minibar. You remember that?"

"I think he’s a girl, mate."

Oli doesn't make a sound, he doesn't make a move. Such a stupid face. Eyebrows raised and eyes just a bit wide. His hands squeeze the steering wheel, and his gaze stays glued on the road like it's anchoring him from being washed away. "H?" he whispers.

And Louis just says it. "Yeah."

What's meant to happen? Both of them are frozen like fools, speechless with a sacred homily banging on the teeth behind their closed lips.

"Take me to the beach, would you? Any fucking beach…"

"Yeah— yeah, of course, man."

"Any…"

  
  
  
  


"Can I stay in your dressing room? Obviously I'll be quiet. I just wanna see your pretty little face when you finish tonight's show."

"I'm not pretty."

"You're just taking the piss now."

"I know what 'pretty' is, Louis. And I'm not. I'm… handsome. Rugged. You know, I'm… I'm boyish. My face. It's manly. You know."

"What, you wanna look more like a woman?"

"..."

"I don't know. Why don't you shave? Stop cutting your hair. It's not like it's hard. You know what women look like."

"..."

"You know, if that's the mentality you got then I think you got a really fucking simple solution. You know? Oh baby you know what I mean."

"It's not that simple."

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Because it just isn't."

  
  
  
  


Anything should be happening. Louis's sure of it. But that's as far as his mind can make an assessment. All he has is the present, and the ability to tell that it's very, very cold. And he's never been good at tolerating that. Maybe there's a reason he sits on the freezing sand anyway, putting up with it like it's the only thing he's meant to do. There's no reason why Fitties Beach would have anyone standing on the shore at 1:23am in the dead of winter. Well, Louis isn't standing anyway. Maybe that's why he has good reason.

He wishes it were raining, just so it could all feel more grim. He swears he wouldn't feel it. And looking out into the North Sea, he wonders, would the fish feel it? Could they ever know it was raining if they saw it above their heads? If they saw the drops ripple the sea above, what would they think? Would they wonder? Would they ever figure it out? Would they care if they ever did?

"You know, when I first met Harry, I thought he was just the cutest boy I’d ever seen. I was just mad about him. Head over heels. When I found out that he was crushing on me too I thought, lucky me! You know? When we first snogged… you know, I was still dating Hannah. So I guess I was cheating. Anyway, we kissed —and it was shit, he was absolutely terrible… and… you know, I was trying to make a point that I was gonna cut things off with Hannah. And I said to him, I always knew I fancied boys. I didn’t know I didn’t like girls 'till I met you."

Oli just looks at the sand, silent, while Louis sits beside him. The darkness marks the confessional between them, and the moon— the moon just made it easy to find the lighter for the cigarettes.

"Life’s just fucking funny, innit. It’s just one big joke. You think… you think things are one way and just… it’s a blink of an eye, and it all goes fucking sideways. And you don’t know what the fuck’s going on. But it’s what’s going on, eh? This is what’s fucking happening…"

Takes a drag, blows out the smoke.

"I didn't think it was serious. A dress, some lingerie. Fucking whatever. You know, I fucking love seeing him happy. But it's not— It's… it is serious. I can feel him… feeling different, right under me hands. And changing…"

That makes him look at his hand, the delicate fingers that hold the thin stick between. The burning tip. Bright red. 

"I don't like it."

And he doesn't smoke.

"I don't like thinking about him with tits, I don't want him to cut his prick off. I don't like it when he changes his voice. I don't want him to change his voice, and his face, and his body. The way he talks. The clothes he wears. I’m not into it, man. I don't like it."

And this time he does smoke. He takes a drag with a furrowed brow.

"I don’t fucking like women I’m gay. I can't get it up cos I can't get turned on anymore. And he just absolutely lost it. Cos he realized then… I lied. You know, I don't want anything to be different. I don't want him to change. I can't like girls, man. I don't."

And that must've been the most candid confession. The worst words he could imagine putting together, delivered with complete grace. And he's breathing a bit hard now. And in that moment, he's so tired of smoking. There's been so much nicotine his chest feels like a furnace. But then again, that feeling might just be something else. His hand is trembling. And his eyes go wide. Like everything is suddenly bright.

"But it's not about what I want. It's not about what I want."

Shaking his head hard, frowning with a scowl.

"I want him to be happy. So I dont give a fuck, I don't care. I love him more than anything. More than anything I’ve ever loved in my whole fucking life.”

And he goes radical. Declaring,

“I care about his happiness more than mine. Everything about him, I care more about than anything that's got to do with me. And that's the _fucking_ truth.”

Every word solid in pronunciation to push against the alcohol and prove sobriety. To be bold. Maybe proving his own dedication. Insecure and defensive. Words he’s never said. 

“I don’t fucking care about meself when I’m with him.”

He sniffs. Maybe the moon isn't bright enough to show why.

“I 'd do anything for him. Anything in the world.”

Delay the beer's given his speech. Give him a second.

“I'd fucking die for him. I would, I will. Without him. It's not even a fucking question, that… you know, I would. If I had to. Not even— I'm fucking dead without him. I don't give a fuck."

How’s that? He looks at Oli, hoping to see doubt in his eyes so he can rip them out and shove them down his throat. But Oli's stunned. And a little afraid when he looks at him, enough to turn his gaze another way. Maybe lamenting the reality he’s being subjected to without real choice. Because Louis doesn’t want feedback. Just a pit to throw his feelings where they can sink and disappear. Oli just feels sorry for him. Pity for his stupidly rich childhood friend and the misfortunes that make him happy he’s himself, and not Louis. 

“I don't care what the fuck I think, or what I want… You know?” So desperate. “Do you fucking get that?”

"Yeah, man." Oli scratches his head, so deeply sympathetic of it all. So helpless. "Yeah, of course. Of course." And nods. 

“I don't know what he's feeling or what he wants anymore. And I used to know fucking everything but I don’t know shit about this, I don’t know. But I just want him to have everything he’s not telling me because I want him to be happy. You know? My fucking opinion doesn’t mean _shit_ , I'm fucking _worthless_ , what I think doesn’t— fucking _matter_. For me, he, like… he goes beyond anything, man. Everything. I love that little a-angel…!"

Louis couldn't help that. And it frustrates him with a growl, a sniff as he reels back composure.

"I fucking love him with everything I fucking got in me and— and I wanna be with him forever. I still do, I always will. I never haven't, in nine _fucking_ years. I have _always_ wanted him _every_ second of _every_ year. And I'm fucking scared he won't believe me now. I keep thinking that he’ll want somebody else, someone who just, didn't think anything of it."

The horror.

"Someone who likes girls."

The moon doesn't have to be bright enough to let it show— it's in Louis's voice. Broken, shattering with every word.

"I fucking love him… Th-That…" 

He hiccups.

"That has to count for _s-something…_ ! Oh, _fuck_ ! **_Fuck_ ** !! I can't fucking help it! This shit isn't my fucking _fault_! Why does it have to fucking matter?!"

Knees up, hand to his head with fingers digging into the scalp.

"Jesus, **_f-fuck_ **!!"

It's getting windy now, the ocean tide meeting the sand with just a bit more noise. Like Louis's bringing it all to life.

“I’m scared that I don’t— You know what I mean, I love him. B-But somebody’s gonna tell me I don’t, man… I-Is what’s gonna happen...”

He forgot all about his cigarette. In a panic he sucks the base hard. He's such an expert. Not easy to smoke and cry at the same time.

“And then I’m gonna have to go fucking mad, eh? Gonna start talking to meself on the street, bashing me fucking head in against the walls till I'm dead. Because what the fuck…!"

So he breaks again. And there's nothing left of the stick to smoke anymore. Both hands are free to hurt himself. And the beach— the whole beach hears it all. All of its nothingness, all that damp, cold sand.

" _What the_ **_fuuck_ ** _!!_ "

Then he lets them drop. Composure again. A hard, helpless breath in.

"Everything just changes like… like it’s nothing, man. And I’m fucking trying. I’m fucking trying so fucking _h-hard_ …!”

Tug and pull on wispy brown hair, growl with a clenched jaw, head in his hands.

“And it never fucking does... **_anything_ ** _…_!!” 

Just to cry. Cry a bit. 

“I just wanna feel like I’m doing something right… Cos I just want him to be alright I don't want to lose him. _Nobody_ can take care of him except _me_ …! It's **_me_**! I'd give me fucking life for him but that's worth shit now, isn't it? I cant f-fucking give him what he wants anymore...! I'm not fucking **_enough_** _now! And I don't know w-what to_ _fucking_ ** _do_** _! I don't know what to_ ** _fucking do!!_** _”_

Cry a lot.

“What do I have to give for it to be enough? It's all I wanna know, it's all I want. Please please please...”

“It’s not nothing to do with you...”

Louis lifts his head from his knees with wide eyes, turning his head to his right. Oli won't look at him. He's got his own knees brought up, arms propped on top. Fidgeting a bit like he's taking a risk. Like he can't help it.

“It’s not about you— I-It’s not about _me_ … You know?"

The moon isn't lighting much, but these two don't need it to see each other. See into every word spoken between them.

"In the grand scheme of things, you’re… Like… Shit just happens to people. And sometimes all you’re meant to do is… is stay. And watch.”

And Oli's so quiet. This time he turns his head. 

"Sometimes seeing is what means the most."

Tells him,

“You’re a good person."

Something about that just sends Louis to pieces. The way he looks at him, eyes red and sending water down his cheeks. Oli would’ve looked at him just that same way too if he was drunk. 

“And you really are doing your best.”

Louis groans and rubs his wet face. Sensitive, drunk man. He starts to cry. And sorrow without inhibitions to keep it in bounds makes it an ugly thing. The sort of sobbing that comes from the belly with teeth clenched and eyes covered. The kind of tears that fall to mourn things broken beyond repair. Some things just transcend every state of mind, penetrating the most inebriated consciousness. 

Louis's such a crybaby beneath the cracks.

  
  
  
  


_Can you send me the addres where Harry's staying?_

_In Japan_

_He's in LA lol._

_Your place._

_He's still tjwre right ??_

_Yeah._

  
  
  
  


When Harry's parents decided he was too old to crawl into bed with them, he started to wear his mother's aloe vera infused gloves to bed as a means to soothe his loneliness. And anxiety. He'd spend the rest of his years hearing her recount the tale of her favorite pair of moisturizing gloves gone missing. A gift from her mother. Harry didn't feel bad. When he began bunking with the boys on the X Factor he didn't pack his gloves. 

_"That's why I wanted to bunk with you, in the beginning."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because I couldn't, um… like, sleep, without my mum's gloves. I couldn't sleep alone without them."_

_"You still need them when I'm not with you?"_

_"No. I mean, you're never gone for more than a few days. I can manage."_

_"Would you need them if I were gone any longer than that?"_

_"Hm… Probably not. I don't know. You'd never let me get that lonely, would you?"_

_"I mean… I try me best. You know that."_

_"Yeah."_

_"I get lonely without you as well. If you're ever lonely without me, you know, just know I'm missing you. I'm always gonna miss you."_

Mint green, fluffy little gloves.

Harry's got a pair on when he answers the door. 

It's a little funny when he takes them off the moment he sees Louis standing in the front porch with an overnight bag hanging on his shoulder. At least, it would've been if Louis didn't feel sick to his stomach.

Harry was crying, and drinking beyond belief. Maybe him showing up wasn't a surprise like Louis thought it'd be. Jeff couldn't have thought a memo would send Harry into a trainwreck of emotion. Apprehension. Fear of what Louis was coming all the way to LA to do after nearly a month of not talking to him.

Well, he came to hold him. Harry won't be needing any gloves another night. Wasn't gonna be lonely, another night.

It's times like this when Louis's reminded that Harry is actually quite muscular. Stepping inside, door slammed behind them and bag dropped to the floor— he hugs him like he never thought he'd do it again. Louis didn't realize he was thinking the same until he's blinking tears down into the crook of Harry's neck. On the plane trip over, he was dreading the thought of a teary reunion like this happening. Because he didn't think their time apart was the manifestation of something truly serious. Something that would mark the end. Something that closed the lock and nearly threw away the key.

Maybe they did break up, a little. He doesn't know. Maybe, he thinks so.

The thought doesn't cross his mind long enough for him to decide. 

Harry's pulling back, cupping Louis's face to kiss him, look into his teary eyes through his own. And then he shakes his head, looks down to his feet as he wipes his eyes. Embarrassed. What for? Louis won't let Harry take any blame.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, baby."

He knows Harry's been suffocating under the weight of sole accountability. Of the belief that Louis was gone forever and he was responsible. Harry can't take something like that. He could never.

"Could you forgive me, darling? I missed you so, so much. I'm so fucking sorry."

Harry doesn't say a word, far from them and beyond reach. He won't want them. He just sinks to the floor and cries in the arms that hold him like he could never be replaced.

  
  
  
  


Harry always sleeps like a rock after he has himself a good cry. The accelerator and brakes stay in a tug and pull, weeping and stifling it at the same time with tireless commitment. But that energy only lasts as long as the session. A resolution, honest or not, is the only thing that frees him from the balancing act. At which point, Harry doesn't even have the energy to keep his puffy eyes open. 

Needless to say, it's worse when he cries without anything to heed him. 

Louis sleeps fine, though. In fact, the adrenaline of a relationship crisis has kept him wide awake. And for once he gets to watch his early bird sleep past noon. It's an amusing switch in roles until Louis remembers the circumstances. Then it's sad all over again. It's all just really sad.

Louis's helpless. Tracing his fingertips over Harry's skin has been his lullaby since he woke up— hours ago. Harry hasn't stirred for even a second. Pleasant dreams, he hopes. Because there was no resolution in their goodnight. 

The goodnight was horrific. If Louis's honest, 

it's one of the most horrible things he'll have to live with for the rest of his life. 

“I haven't spoken since my birthday.”

Louis looked over his shoulder to where Harry lied in bed cozy, tucked under the duvet. Asked him, “What do you mean?”

“I mean… that I hadn't talked to anyone in almost a month. Like, not vocalizing, for so long… It's weird. I think.”

Not much clarification. It was an odd thing for Louis to hear, and he wasn't sure if he liked it. 

“I’ve just been… here, alone, chilling. Reading, painting a little bit. I painted.” Pointed to a closed black sketchbook with a half-painted watercolor ocean wave inside. “I tried. I’m still shit at it. I don’t know why I keep trying. It’s—” He giggled. “It’s therapeutic until I realize how bad I am at it. I keep thinking of like, Van Gogh and…” A new trail. “I really like art. I wish I could be an artist.” And he was thinking on an opinion Louis could tell he’d looked over a dozen times. A hundred dozen. Dummed down and summarized, “I’m not talented.”

Louis just looked at him.“I reckon Van Gogh wasn’t much of a musician.”

And Harry cracked a smile.

Louis remembers thinking he did good, fixed some leak making their home a mess. Smiled back with a seat on the edge of the bed and a caress to Harry’s cheek. But something in Harry’s expression made him see he didn’t convince him of much, only made him appreciative of the sentiment, and fond of his warm palm on his cheek. His face was still so pink, his eyes puffy and his lips flushed. So sleepy. Hungover already, maybe.

"I wish I'd gotten the… genius part, of being fucked in the head."

"You're not fucked in the head, Harry. If you feel bad, you know— it's normal. Happens to everybody. Happens to me. But don't say you're fucked in the head. It's no good thinking about yourself like that."

Harry tucked both his arms under the duvet, and turned his back to Louis. 

And Louis remembers feeling a bit nervous at the distance he was putting between them. But still, prepared. There was confidence in that. Even if he couldn't give Harry the physical comfort he was craving, he felt prepared for whatever Harry couldn't say to his face.

"...I feel really broken." he murmured.

"Is it because we fought?"

"No… No, I wish."

Louis stayed looking at the back of Harry's head, greasy curls coiled tight. Gave his shoulder a soft touch. "Then what's wrong?"

"I've just been… really down, lately."

"Everybody gets down sometimes, love. You know, I get down sometimes too. Doesn't last forever. You'll get back up."

"... Sometimes I just wanna… stay down…" Quiet. "...Sleep in the dirt…" Whispering. "...It'd be easier…"

Oh that wasn't so bad. 

Until the next few words knocked the pillars 

holding Louis in one piece.

"But I wouldn't do that to you."

The muscles in Louis's face went lax all at once. And it felt like the wind was knocked out of him, breathless without an attempt to get air. 

"Or mum."

Everything just froze. 

"Two people. That's not a lot, is it."

Because he knew exactly what Harry meant. "Harry—"

Harry knew that, too. "Don't talk to me. I'm asleep."

Pieces, pieces. It broke Louis into a million pieces, with only the bathroom to help him grasp at gravel and make him stable. It was hard to cry quietly. Should've locked himself in the bathroom in the hallway.

It's been the only thing Louis can think about for 6 hours straight. He'd never heard anything like that coming from Harry before. And yet, there was no closure in the ambiguity of his short words. Interpretation for a case gone cold. Harry can say Louis got it all wrong like he can convince him. 

But Louis stays close by like there's righteousness in keeping idle watch, and not just a helpless, desperate sort of fear. Last time he felt like this was in an icy cold hospital room.

After smoking himself into a state of nausea he returned from the balcony to snoop as dusk breached the LA horizon. Harry snoring means he can turn his back. And snooping through the cluttered room has proven to be a decent way to pass the time.

Harry is a much better artist than he gives himself credit for. _"Honestly I just copy, like…Basquiat and Van Gogh and make slight changes. But I draw for myself so it's okay."_ Their style, maybe. But Harry's creations are lovely enough to Louis he flips through the pages with a little smile. So many amusing doodles in overpriced pens. So many distorted faces. Too many sad ones. Louis makes it to the end of the fat sketchbook before finally reaching blank pages, making sure to return his tools as they were. Harry's latest poetry moleskine sits on the desk as well, something Louis is strictly forbidden from ever opening. He's never read a single poem before, and he isn't about to betray his trust now. So Louis keeps walking, barefoot in his sweats. 

A book sits in plain sight on a little chair with a table beside it. Reading time, of course. Louis walks over to grab it and read the cover in his hand. A smoldering, topless woman gives the camera a look over her shoulder. Haruki Murakami, _South of the Border, West of the Sun_ . Louis can't stand what he's decided are boring, contrived stories of manic pixie dream girls and many a midlife crisis— not a plot in sight. According to him, Harry finds the vague text easy to project his feelings onto. _"Oh fuck you, I do not!"_

Inside the pages is a bookmark tucked in snug. Louis flips it open, and is surprised to see highlighted text in the center. And when he realizes there aren't any other words in the book in pink marker, he finds it downright bothersome. It's a brand new book.

_"Inside that darkness, I saw rain falling on the sea. Rain softly falling on a vast sea, with no one there to see it. The rain strikes the surface of the sea, yet even the fish don't know it is raining."_

Louis's brow tenses as he reads the text over and over again.

Rain falling on the sea, with no one there to see it.

Fish swimming right beneath the surface of the truth,

and not knowing a damn thing.

"Hey."

Louis shuts the book with a thud and turns around quick. "Hey!" An honest smile, rushing over to Harry at bedside. "Hello, darling." A kiss to Harry's nose. "Sleeping Beauty, eh?" And a million more around his face.

Harry giggles, delighting in the affection.

“You hungry? Let’s go out, come on. Get you out of bed.”

"Want you here, Lou."

Louis looks at him. Big baby, darling boy. Exhausted from sleeping, resigned to… something. Everything. Louis's never seen him so unnervingly idle. He stirs lightly in the sheets, and just looks up at Louis for a long time.

"Want you with me."

Louis can't let a thing show on his face. He's desperate for normalcy more than anything. So it's a smile, a roll of the eyes, all playful like nothing was ever wrong. Like sorrow can't find them if they stay quiet under bedsheets. "Alright, alright. Scoot over."

Harry slides back, facing the spot Louis will claim. "I think I'm a bit smelly."

Once tucked under the duvet, Louis digs his face into Harry's neck and starts munching with funny little noises to make him laugh. Makes him writhe, tickling his squishy hips. It's obvious he hasn't showered in a while, stale cologne and bitter sweat. "You smell good," he tells him once he finally stops. The sound of Harry's dying laughter is so sweet, the feel of his hands reaching to touch Louis's body in a fidget. Not a nervous one, Louis hopes. He keeps as little distance between them as possible with their faces inches apart, pillows under their heads.

Harry doesn’t say anything. A big, quiet breath taken in as he just looks into Louis's eyes. His very lovely boyfriend. The softest blue eyes with a dark, warm shade of pink all around. His pink lips and sharp cheekbones, the ginger scruff overgrown on his face. It's easy to love. Hard to look away.

"You know, when my parents got divorced, and dad left, I remember thinking it was my fault," Harry says, barely above a whisper. "We weren't spending so much time together, and I kept making him angry because I was loud and, and I cried, and I gave my parents, like…" 

He finally breaks away from Louis's gaze. Seems to search for any other spot to confess to.

"I annoyed him. I could tell. I was annoying. He told me we'd see each other all the time and like, nothing was gonna change, he'd always be there… But he just wasn't. It felt like he left. And I just thought he'd left because of me. His new wife, she had kids. And they were older and mature… and then there was me. I wasn't enough to make him stay…"

Harry sniffs, quiet for some time. And then he just cracks a smile, scrunches his face like he's reacting to himself. 

"It's stupid." And this time he tells Louis to his face. "Every fucking time I think I'm over it and then I just think about it and it's like, nope…" Pouts. "I'm still sad about it."

When Harry recounts the tale he always makes it sound like it's the first time. Louis would find it remarkable if he didn't just find it depressing. "I'm not your dad." He wants it to be a comfort, hand reaching up to fix Harry's hair. "And we're not your parents."

"I know that…"

He chuckles. "You always think we're gonna break up."

"I didn't grow up around a lot of happy endings."

And Louis just sighs at that, sincere in his attentiveness.

"People fight and then they… they leave. And they don't miss you. But you miss them. Then… one day, you're the one who leaves. And then you realize that… the people you miss… they don't miss you, as much as you thought they did. And they, like… adjusted. People adjust… fast. And easy. Because I'm really fucking hard to miss."

Harry had never told that story before. And Louis, he isn't about to let that linger in his head. Not if he can help it. Never. "You're not some afterthought to people. People really fucking care about you. I care about you." Softly, "You're not hard to miss, Harry."

"Well… I have a hard time believing that."

"You shouldn't."

Harry looks down. "Maybe."

"Then you won't worry about us breaking up all the time. It's never as bad as you think, sweetheart. Wish you'd believe that every once in a while."

And he furrows his brow a bit. "So do I."

Louis hates it. He hates this. Hates the cloud raining on Harry that won't go away, stubborn as he is. And so unfair. Persistent like disease and eager to do damage all the same. "You're very easy to miss." More. "You're impossible to not miss, you light up the fucking room wherever you are. It's… unbearably fucking obvious when you leave. I miss you so fucking much, every single time you're not with me. Every second." And he confesses, I… I-I missed you when I was yelling at you…Cos I knew I wouldn't see you for a while, knew you'd… be upset, for a while. Long while…"

"I'm always upset. Sometimes I just can't hide it. Anymore. Sometimes. I can't help it. I'm s—"

"Don't apologize."

Harry chuckles. Louis thinks he might be thinking of ways to continue the conversation. But Harry just tosses it aside completely. "... Why don't you leave me?"

Louis doesn't want to just beg, 'Stop, stop, stop.' Even if it's the only thing he wants to think.

"What could I possibly have that's worth going through all this shit?"

"What are we going through?"

He purses his lips, unprepared. "Well we're not having a very good time, are we?" He looks ashamed.

"Do you wanna leave?"

"No." It's the first show of passion from Harry since he stopped crying hours ago. Good, Louis thinks. Though not knowing what it means. "I love you."

He definitely knows what that means.

"I'm absolutely horrific, I'm disgustingly obsessed with you."

And unfortunately, he knows what that means too. For the first time, Louis's graced with mental inanimacy. No gears, no subconscious. He just digs under the sheets for Harry's hand to hold.

And he speaks.

"There's nothing disgusting about the way you feel about me. Or the way I feel about you. I love you. Just the same as always. The way it's gonna be forever. With my whole heart, darling. That's the fucking truth. You have my whole heart forever and I'm _never_ gonna get tired of telling you that, Harry. Never. Anytime you need to hear it you just tell me."

Harry just looks down. And it's quiet. Louis holds his breath. "It's the worst feeling in the world," Harry whispers. "Missing you so much and… wishing you'd never look at me again…"

And his face turns red up to his ears. Louis's become more familiar with it than he wishes. Nose bright red, Rudolph tip. It's all an awful dawn, Louis's heart breaking beneath his ironhold facade.

"Sometimes it feels like I'll die without you..."

Which is really a way of saying something else. Something terrible. An unfair responsibility, and the crippling guilt resting beside its confession.

"I feel really fucking alone…" That sniff comes. "It just…" And he can't help it— hiccuping, eyes squeezing shut.

And that could mean anything. Louis's hand squeezes Harry's. Desperate, eyes watering, he tells him, "I'm here, baby." Kissing his knuckles, hands trembling. "Hm?"

What's it supposed to matter in the grand scheme of things? What's a hand holding another from doing harm in the moment? 

It's not enough. Louis has to pull him in hard so he can hold him and pretend he could never let him go. It's like Harry is aware of the fantasy— he just melts. Surrendered completely with soft, silent weeping.

"It's okay. You're with me, baby. I'm not going nowhere, you're alright."

Louis has to swaddle him like he'll break without him, physical mending that heals in a ruse. But it holds together. And it smothers a flame that always threatens to burn a wildfire that will never bloom again. Louis wants desperately to believe— egoist, pompous— that he fixes it all. Everything. It all goes away with him.

"I'm here. It's okay."

It all falls apart right beneath him. Wet sand slipping through his fingers into the ocean tide. Failure at the foot at what was always futile. It hits him now, as he feels the skin of his collarbone go cold with tears, leaving kisses over greasy curls as he cradles, holds close what's dear.

But what's the good in letting Harry know? He likes it when Louis pretends. He needs him to— he'll never wanna say so, lest it be another blow to his self esteem; humiliating needs. Let him be a cure. Let him mend ash through a mesh sheet. Let him hold and lull him till he falls asleep. Holding tight, as always, to barbed responsibility.

  
  
  
  


"How was your birthday?" It was the first time Louis would dread the answer to a question like that.

"It was nice."

Louis wasn't about to believe him. But he did enjoy pictures of Harry and his pink tophat shaped like a birthday cake. Big grin on his face in all the private pictures, the videos. When they wished him a happy birthday, there were so few people in the room you could hear each individual voice singing off-key, far from an LA crowd roaring in a choir while professional cameras flashed for Daily Mail. This year Harry handed the nine people in the room slices of his birthday cake with giggles. So much cake leftover. As anticipated, Louis felt miserable knowing he was getting piss drunk in London at the time, every other memory leading up to that one making his heart sink even deeper. 

Louis could've stayed at Harry's birthday party in Japan. He would've been just another friend. And he would've been there singing, drunk, and happy alongside him for the celebration of his 26th year alive.

Alive.

Louis knew better than to fall for Harry's charade. However daft he plays, he's never once believed in a single one of the white lies woven to cushion his feelings from being hurt.

"Aw. Well, I'm… you know, I'm happy you had a good time… after, um. You know. You know, I'm just happy to see you were smiling and happy and all that. You deserve to be happy. You know, you deserve that, baby. You do. So I'm glad I didn't ruin your birthday."

Ever since Louis landed in LA he's been busy enough with preparation for his latest single. Harry's been a bit quiet. Stay at home housewife. Something's off, subtle like the squeak of a wheel. Louis knew it for sure when he noticed in the first two days that his workouts had gone up from 1 hour to 3. And he was in the kitchen making something for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, never letting Louis keep him from labor by ordering takeaways. 

Because he's fine. He's stable. He proves it to himself by keeping a busy schedule and following it religiously.

When children play pretend it's best to play along. Big brother— Louis's never been one to ruin the fantasy. Not on purpose, anyway.

"You know I’ve been thinking of the story I’m gonna say for like… when I have to say like, oh you spent so much time in Japan what were you doing?"

"Dissociating and not being Harry Styles."

Harry laughs. "Right, yeah!"

Louis's glad the joke wasn't too dark. So he smiles, joins him for a chuckle.

It's been a nice day. Maybe because Louis found the motivation to play some football in their backyard. Or maybe because it's the last evening before they take a plane home to London, their bags already packed and waiting for an early morning flight. Harry's itching to get to that piano they have in their other house, insisting inspiration has struck him in a most remarkable act of charity. Louis's just grateful to see he hasn't lost motivation to pursue the dream he knows he's always really wanted. That makes him feel less guilty about going back to scheduling interviews and sessions at the recording studio. Harry isn't up to real work in a while, which means he'll likely be joining him for it all. March looks like it'll be a good month.

Harry's looming over Louis as he unties his muddy shoes, chipper and a little annoying. Louis likes him that way, even when he knows Harry is incredibly disapproving of the fact he's chosen the dining table chair to take off his football gear. So it isn't surprising to see he's shoved a glass of 100% organic coconut water in his hand before dropping to the floor to take off his shoes and, presumably, his socks, for as little fallout of dirt to the polished wooden floor. Maybe he'll give him a massage or give him a pedicure— Louis expects anything.

"I need to make my whole Japan trip sound professional," Harry tells him, straining to loosen the shoelaces squeezing Louis's shoe to his foot.

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Otherwise, like… the label's gonna rip my ass in half over it, probably. Hm. Harry Styles dissociating, no one’s gonna like the sound of that."

Louis chuckles, having finished the coconut water while Harry drawled on. "Oh yeah, no. No, not at all."

"Certainly not investors. Not mine…" Harry sighs deep and blows out hard through his nose. "They like _consistency_ !" Harry mocks Jeff in an American accent, "You gotta be a _consistent_ **_guy_ ** . A c _onsistent_ **_GUY_ **..."

"What?"

Harry's done with Louis's left shoe, so he takes it off, moving on to the next one. "I don’t fucking need anyone. It’s all fucking deadweight… Jesus, I just don’t give a shit… Everything is like… I don't know. I don't know what… matters. Fuck. I don't know what's supposed to matter. Because nothing matters. Nothing matters to me… I don't know."

Suddenly Harry drops his head on Louis's lap, resting his cheek atop his thigh with arms hugging his legs. And always on cue, Louis begins to pet his head. It's as comforting to him as it is for Harry to settle into their dynamic in affection. And, in a less heartwarming way, they also share a sense of nausea when Harry begins to sink into melancholy, always one to slip and fall too deep to crawl out.

Louis's ready, though. He's got the rope to pull him out.

"I don't know what matters," Harry says, so Louis knows what he's comforting him for when he caresses him, combs through his chocolate curls. "Nothing's… the same, Lou…"

Louis doesn't miss a beat. "You and me, we're always gonna be the same."

"Yeah."

"Don't worry about it. I don't want you to worry about something like that."

Harry stays quiet for a while, the way he always does when he doesn't particularly care for what Louis has to say. Because he just wants to confess: "I don't think anybody likes me." So, so quiet.

Louis struggles to meet him with the same serenity. "Jesus, come on— that's not true." He hates it, despises it, wretches on the inside over Harry standing under a conclusion like that. Because it's so nonspecific, so wildly untrue Louis can't begin to imagine how he ever came to believe it. Was it him? Was it the label? Who was to blame? How can Louis fix it? He rushes, "That's not fucking true. You can't actually believe that. Everybody loves you, Harry. Alright, everybody loves you— _I_ love you."

"You know what I mean."

Louis snorts, struggling to not tug on Harry's hair in frustration. "No, darling, obviously I _don't_ know what you mean. No. What _do_ you mean?"

"Nobody sees me. People like what they see, but… I’m not what they're really seeing… And I know they’d all hate me… once they see me. I’ve seen it, you know. They’ve said it."

The concern sounds familiar, and that's mildly comforting. At least, Louis thinks it does. He feels fuzzy and in a hurry, but confident enough to assure Harry, "Things are changing, love. You know that. It can't go backwards. It always moves forward." Because that's safe, that's something he's said a million times before. Spoken with grace like he never gets tired of saying it, like Harry's been happy so many times before to hear it before. "It's not the same as when we started."

Suddenly Harry sits back, sitting on his legs tucked under him. And he doesn't look at Louis. "That's just the thing, isn't it…"

So horrifically vague. Louis can't make sense of a thing. "What?"

With green eyes looking into blue, Harry speaks his softest words. "It's not the rest of the world I want changed. It's me."

A plea.

Suddenly Harry gets up, back turned to Louis, and takes a few steps away. "I don't know," he says. "I don't care what anyone else does. I don't care…"

The sliding door to their backyard reflects a solid reflection of Harry on the pitch black glass. He crosses his arms, fingertips picking at the skin of his ship tattoo. And a cloud manifests around him, woven in the murmurs that leave his lips.

"Sometimes all I can do is just… Sometimes all I do is hate. And hate, and I hate…And I hate everyone. And I hate everything. That weighs on you, you know? It's like… I don't know. It makes me tired. I'm tired of… of hating. I don't know. It just never stops… I can't remember it ever bothering me this much… You try to, like… run away from it… You can't run away from it… Doesn't fucking go anywhere."

Louis's got his weight rested on his thighs, looking up at the back of Harry's head, hopeless without a clue.

"I’ll never get to change…" Harry says, like it's the most important thing he can. "I guess I'm not… as okay, with that. As I was before."

And there aren't words Louis can present as a solution. Not even as comfort. His brow is slightly furrowed now, trying desperately to piece together Harry's monologue, put together like ill-fitting puzzle pieces with the most frustrating consciousness.

He just speaks so softly. Like he doesn't even want Louis to hear. To know what he means when he says, "And you know what’s worse is that I can afford it. It's so hard for everybody because they don't have the money but I do. I can be the person I wanna be but... it's impossible. It’s like trying to jump to the fucking moon. Every day I have to try and be okay with it because it's all I can think about anymore. And…every single time, it all goes back to knowing that… everybody would hate me… There's no career anymore, not the way it could've been. And I'd just lose everything, and everyone."

And he stays quiet for just a moment. Maybe so Louis can try to process it. Maybe so he can try to himself. If Louis could see him, he'd see the most beautiful face in the world. And he would see it shattered. He'd see it sad.

"And then I'm not gonna be happy, am I? I'm not happy either way… It’s never gonna work out."

Louis just shakes his head, so quiet. "Don't say that…" And nothing pierces that silence. Not for some time. Not until it makes Louis sick, hurt.

Because then, Harry's barely above a whisper. Words only grazing at the surface of a sound. "If you're one or the other then it's… great... Congratulations…"

Licks his lips, bites the bottom one for a while.

"But if you're… if you're both or… neither then... it's like… well you need to figure it out, you're confused, you know. Pick a fucking side… You fucking idiot. You're fucking ridiculous, making a fool out of yourself…"

He starts to shift his weight, just barely. Red skin on his cheeks. He frowns.

"And fine, I don't have it figured out…"

A sharp ache in his words when he whispers a bit higher,

"But I'm not _confused…_ "

Like he's begging. He takes a deep breath then looks down at his feet. Looks back up again, speaks normal, again.

"I'm just bummed."

And his hands go to his hips, sighing deep one more time before he swings his arms into a clap.

"Fuck it."

There's a little smile on his face when he turns around. He made it just for Louis, who sits bare and trivial in his chair.

So Harry tells him, "I'm the last person who should be complaining about anything, anything at all. I have everything. And I'm safe, you know. I'm loved. I'm loved. I have you."

Oh, he's the one trying to comfort Louis now. He walks over and plants a kiss on the top of his head. And Louis, he just doesn't move a muscle.

"So whatever, you know? There, I've— I-I…" Harry looks down at Louis's feet, and quickly snorts. "Oops."

Forgot to take off the other shoe. This time it barely takes him a minute to get them off, and slide off the socks Louis had up to his calves. He's rushing away now, tossing all of the football gear over by the sliding door to put outside. And very quickly, Harry is making his way to the kitchen.

"You want chicken? I need to get started on dinner, I'm absolutely famished. And! It just so happens that _I_ am in the mood for _your_ favorite! I haven't had snow peas in a hot minute. That's what they're saying now, 'a hot minute'. I quite like that, I thought that was really funny.

"You have a right to be sad, Harry."

A pin dropped.

"About whatever it is you wanna be sad about…"

Maybe Louis should've left it alone. Maybe Harry was just a minefield beneath the surface, and Louis was about to lift his foot off a trigger.

Harry's hunched over the countertop, back to Louis again. Knuckles turning white against the marble. "But then I can't be Harry Styles, can I?" he whispers with eyes unfocused. "A-And I can't cook dinner. I fucking hate when maids cook, I don't wanna buy takeaways… get a maid again…"

"Baby." Louis's making his way towards him. And Harry must've felt him just inches away. 

Because he jolts back from his touch, and walks backwards quick when he sees Louis reach out to him.

"Baby, please."

Harry's ripping at the seams right in front of him. Voice trembling with eyes wide eyes, watering, never looking Louis in his. "Life fucking goes _on_ , Louis. Alright? Right?" He sniffs, hand roughly wiping his face dry. "Life goes _on_ , I— I can't m-miss it, I-I-I can't— fucking _lose it…_! I'm up to **_here_**!!" Hand to his throat, then smacked down to his thigh. "You want me to, to go fucking _mad_?! I-I can't— C-Can't fucking **_take_** _this shit anymore_ …!!"

And suddenly he huffs, breathless.

"You don't— you don't know what the fuck I'm talking about. You don't even know. You don't. You don't! Okay, so **_p-please_ **!"

Louis stays in place.

"I'm _h-hungry…_!"

And Harry smacks his hand on the counter with a bang.

" **_Fuck_ **!!"

Of course, he must storm away.

And of course,

Louis will follow. Not too quick. He takes his time, knowing enough about the sounds the house makes to be aware of exactly where Harry ran away to.

It must seem ironic that the most private place in their mansion is the balcony overlooking Hollywood Hills. But that's where they go when they want the volume set from 100 to 5 with a guarantee, no chance of ever going up. Any nasty argument would be an echo to the masses. And that's a risk neither of them have been willing to take, no matter how angry they've gotten. Even if they can't be seen, every word of any argument could be heard by whatever neighbor is willing to listen. So the balcony becomes the quiet place, safe space.

And that's exactly where Harry is. Sundown already— the light turned on makes it even more of a spectacle.

Louis understands. He'll keep it a safe space like he always has. Hopefully Harry knows that too when Louis joins him at the rails. Harry's got his face in his hands, but when he feels Louis beside him he drops them with a sniff. Still hunched. Louis hunches too. He's so close.

And he's very, very quiet.

"I remember picking up, um…your meds, at the pharmacy one day in, um… October, I think, last year. And I saw this— When I looked over the bottles I saw this, um… this box. Estradiol. What the fuck is estradiol, I thought… I took it back and I said, you know, hey, um… I think someone's made a mistake here. You know, I dont know what this is. I asked her what it was and she— She said, oh…"

A pause, gaze outlooking the black horizon. 

"Oh, it's estrogen."

Louis's so perfectly still.

"I didn't wanna argue. I thought it was such an obvious mistake. So I just tossed it in the bin when I got home. Then I saw on your, um…"

But this time he does shift a bit, head turned down to the cliff beneath them.

"In your, um… the Youtube search, last month in Japan, your account on your phone. You left it in me bag. And, um…you had a couple videos that said, um… like, '3 months on estradiol'. Three months this, three months that. January, so…"

It's a whisper. It's a gentle crawl through broken glass.

"That's October, innit?"

It must've been the last thing Harry ever imagined hearing maybe his entire life. His eyes are wide just enough to manifest a certain sense of devastation. The blinding, silent light before a nuclear bomb. It's the same dread in the midst of suspension, where Louis doesn't have the capacity to imagine what's to happen next. If this is to be the end of everything, or a colossal failure that will only serve to drive a wedge so deep between them they'll never reach each other again.

"It's only for one year…"

Just a little peep, like he isn't speaking at all. And Louis holds his breath, listening to that little voice by his ear without a body to make it feel real. 

"Until… I look like a fucking freak, with tits, and a beard, and muscles and hips." 

But Harry sniffs, and his voice gets hoarse.

"A man with tits. And a dick that doesnt work."

Grim. And hateful.

"Brilliant, isn't it? What I'm doing to myself. Harry Styles, all fucking deformed."

"Harry—"

" _Don't_."

Harry said it with such severity. When Louis looks at him, he realizes his skin is flushed and his eyes are pink, wet. He wipes them dry then sniffs again. And he speaks so sharp,heavy past his lips.

"No," he says. Rushing, "No, _don't_. I dont wanna talk about it, okay?"

A trembling huff of frustration because he can barely keep it together.

" _Okay?_ "

Louis nods. "Okay."

And Harry wipes his eyes angrily, frowning, face bright red and voice hoarse. "Fucking _never_ ." Warning, "Fucking _don't_ …! Don't you **_ever_ **...!!"

It swims all across the valley and the hills, a strong echo carrying a pain like it's never seen.

Time feels so strange. Harry is gone from Louis's side, but it doesn't register until an hour after standing on the balcony alone. It felt like seconds ago that Harry built a tower around himself and pushed Louis off the edge right from beside him. And Louis, he didn't find a moment to be conscious after that. It just didn't happen right away. And once it came,

it said nothing. 

Because Harry's marinating a chicken on the counter when Louis comes back inside.

"Turn the telly on, will you, honey? My hands are a bit occupied!"

"Yeah," Louis said. "Yeah, of course, love."

"There's a basketball game tonight! You know which channel, right? My fingers… are very oily at the moment. And red. Paprika! Gives the chicken that _gorgeous_ brown color. The skin, I mean. White meat, after all. Like me! That's what, um… spray tan is for, innit? Oh, it's like… paprika for people." Giggling. "Yeah. I— I'm well seasoned in the summer. Like a… a chicken. But I'm not a chicken, obviously… Quite morbid— I've got a chicken in the oven. Yum."

Harry rambles when he feels horrible. It's either rambling or nothing at all. 

And Louis…

Louis has nothing to say.

He promises.

The way he has to, and will, without a moment of hesitation ever paid.

It doesn't end with something like,

_"I'm transgender. Do you still love me?"_

_"Of course I love you. I support you, Harry. It doesn't matter to me. I love you. Don't hold anything back because of me."_

In fact, it doesn't end at all. 

It just vanishes. Its course swallowed under a blackened ocean where nothing can cross.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Until something sparks, flickering light flashed

to what was left unseen, after a long

time passed.


	3. 2020

"Is it weird that I don't like guitar solos?"

" _ What do you mean? _ "

"I mean, I've gotten decent enough that I can fuck around and get a decent sound, yeah? So it's not hard. It's just… I don't know. Was thinking about it the other day."

" _ What, you were thinking about playing live? _ "

Louis snorts, socks dragging across the floor in his lazy stroll. "No, no. Don't know if I ever really want to. Everybody's got their, um… their strong suit, yeah? I'm a fucking amateur, still. That shit's pathetic."

" _ But you don't have to get so technical, mate. Look, you've used single-note riffs in your jams over chord progressions, right? _ "

"Yeah."

" _ That could count as a solo. Eh? _ "

Up ahead is the living room. And upon entering, Louis can see Harry's curls peeking from behind the couch. He drops down to plant a quick kiss on the top of his head as he walks by.

" _ And— Uh, quick chord comps and riffs during a lull in the song? Same shit. _ "

Doesn't notice Harry turn to watch him leave, getting up from the sofa once he's out of sight.

Louis makes it to the room in the house where they keep most of their instruments, the ones they intend on playing. The collectibles they keep elsewhere. But here, among scrap paper, guitars, and keyboards sitting around, they can make things happen. More of another living room, really. While his producer keeps giving him advice, he grabs his acoustic guitar of choice and has a seat on the bright red couch. Vintage Green Day hoodie, black sweats to match. His wispy brown hair is a bit overgrown from the quarantine, and his chiseled face is graced with a fluffy ginger beard down to the neck.

" _ Don't get caught up in the… fucking terms. _ "

What was he saying? "Yeah, yeah. No, yeah, right."

One of Louis's producers has been a shining light in recent months, quarantine keeping him ever so itching for labor to make fruit. His constant need to improve is complicated by his belief that everyone is biased. Instructors, bandmates. And Harry. 

Especially Harry. He bought him the little Seagull as a little gift after Louis lost motivation playing on the collector's Gibson he gave him as a previous gift.

" _ Everybody's got preferences, mate! I'm a Woodie Guthrie fan myself. I guarantee you like doing solos, just not in the traditional sense. And fuck that, you know? That's just me! But you're fucking talking to me— _ "

"Right."

" _ —so what you're getting is my opinion. _ "

"Right, yeah yeah. I appreciate it, mate. I really do."

" _ It's no problem! Any time, any time. _ "

Louis doesn't realize he's been drumming his fingers on the top of his guitar for the whole phone call until after it ends. A cheap Coastline Momentum he won't feel guilty about strumming his novice little fingers on. Ever the perfectionist, he never feels satisfied with the sound of his efforts, no matter what praise he's received. At least there's a pleasant melody in his head he might fancy exploring. He didn't realize it sounded so decent until he heard it on the wood. Maybe he should get to writing it down.

Or, maybe not.

He doesn't realize Harry's been standing by the door either. 

And his face just lights up.

"Oh wow! Look at you."

Harry's standing pretty and a little meek, resting his weight against the door frame. But he's smiling, and he's gorgeous as ever.

Especially since he's wearing a dress.

"C'mere, love. Let me have a look at you, eh?"

Why wouldn't Louis be delighted? Harry's making his way over with the knocking of heels on the floorboards. It's a prairie dress clinging to his tiny frame. Black cotton with tiny pink flowers. The shoulders have the fabric puffed ever so slightly, the rest of the sleeve stopping snug at his elbows. Slim at the torso, long and flowy with ruffles down to the ankles. They swish with Harry's legs, flashing the red heeled boots on his feet. 

"Ta-da!" He gives a little twirl before sitting down on the loveseat across the coffee table, and watches Louis move his guitar aside. "I was waiting for you to finish," he admits with a chuckle.

Louis gives him a little smile, brows curved up. "Aw I'm sorry, baby."

"It's okay."

And Harry just sits there on the red chair. Slumped. Funny. He doesn't say a thing.

And Louis must find it immediately suspicious. Especially since Harry opted to take a seat on a solitary chair instead of claiming the spot next to him on the couch.

"All dolled up. You look lovely, darling," he tells him, his tone light and sweet. Sitting forward, elbows to his knees as he tries to make out more details. "Is there a, um… a special occasion? Or you just wanna show off for me?"

Harry doesn't say anything for a minute. 

And then he snorts.

"I don't know…"

The space between Louis's eyebrows creases in a flash of disbelief. And maybe, just a bit of concern.

"Let me have a look at you. Gotta see this up close, let me see."

Somehow Louis gets the feeling that Harry wants him to be the one to approach him. Like he doesn't wanna bother him. And that's troubling, unacceptable. So he's up on his feet and walking over, grabbing the foot rest and dragging it to Harry's right side so he may take a seat. Rest his own arm on the armrest, body leaning towards Harry. Harry keeps his still, fingers fiddling with the gold rings on every one.

They smile upon coming together, of course. Harry's all dimples. And, evidently, his face is done up in makeup. Brows tinted, smokey brown eyeshadow on his lids and mascara on his curled lashes. And on his lips, a cherry red tint that makes them look flushed and pretty. That scruff growing along his jaw and above his lip stays untouched by foundation or any other thing to cake his skin. That blush is natural— Louis knows the shade. 

He'll get to all that in a minute. "This Gucci?" he asks, gently picking at the black fabric of the dress.

"The Vampire's Wife."

"The what?"

They giggle, and Harry has to wait a second longer to stop. "It's a brand. It's called The Vampire's Wife… They sent it to me. Sent me a dress… Isn't that nice?"

"Very nice of them. They knew you'd look good in it." And Louis begins a gentle caress along Harry's exposed arm, fingertips lightly grazing the tattooed bee. Observing him, speaking honestly and without inhibition. "I think I seen Kate Middleton in a dress like this. I remember. All those good-looking broads wear fancy dresses like this, looking all elegant and… I don't know, serious, I guess. I don't know…"

And they have a little giggle again.

"You put makeup on as well. You look so pretty."

"Thank you."

"You do. I like when you get like this." Louis leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek. Harry turns his head, and the kiss turns sweet with lips parted and eyes closed. Tongues sliding together, Louis's right hand on Harry's jaw. Their facial hair rubs together, nicotine meets mint. Tasting each other with the gentle affection they always know. Maybe they indulge in it for just a moment too long. But it feels so good.

Louis only pulls back because he wants to look at Harry's face again. He had every intention of resuming once he caught sight of those gorgeous emerald eyes, but his expression holds focus hopelessly. And they must stare at each other for quite some time. It always feels like home when he looks into his love's eyes, but this time…

This time something feels different. Harry turns away. Sits back a bit more on the loveseat. And just looks at the hands he rests on his lap.

"Did you know that…one of my favorite times when I was little, was when mum folded laundry?"

"Yeah?"

Harry nods. And Louis's grateful when he turns his head to his right to look him in the eyes again. With a smile he answers, "I loved it."

"Why?"

"Because, I got to sit by the pile on the bed, and try on all of her and Gemma's clothes before she folded them."

Louis smiles. "Oh." He can see it in his head, the whole event featuring a tiny blonde Harry. "That sounds fun." But where was he going with this? Well, Louis must sit still, then. And he must listen very carefully.

"She always smiled at me, and I knew it was because she found it silly, but… I just… lived for those moments anyway. Every time she smiled and laughed I thought… she likes me. She likes me like this. I did it since I was, like… 3. And… I used to wear all of her clothes, and I'd go into her jewelry box, and I'd put on her makeup… She didn't like that…. So I, um… I did it when I got home from school before her, and just took it off before she got back… And I just… did that, every day. Until I was 9. When I was 9… I put on one of mum's  _ prettiest _ dresses. It was this… green, sequin gown she must've worn to some party. I  _ always _ wanted to wear it. It didn't fit her anymore because she'd worn it before she had me, and she'd put on weight. And I remember thinking… I'm big enough… I could fit in it. Cos I was so grown up, right? I was 9 years old. And I was gonna… put clothing pins in the back so it could be really tight on me. And I was gonna wear… all her bracelets, all her rings, her necklaces, and her heels. And put on bright, bright red lipstick. And green eyeshadow." 

Louis's never heard any of it before. But he knows a laugh or a show of surprise is the last thing Harry wants to hear. Not that he found the story anything but precious. So he's passive, he's small. "How glamorous." Fond of it all, like it's just a harmless little story, never meant to go anywhere.

Of course, he knows that isn't true.

Louis stands in the twilight of Harry's dawning confession. Massive. And by his meagerness, incredibly significant.

Harry laughs. "I looked like shit, I looked horrible. But…"

And he purses his lips, looks down at his fingertips to say,

"I tucked. My cock… for the first time." He scratches his hairy jaw, eyes darting all over his lap. 

"And that made me feel good. In Gemma's panties and I… I did it in a hurry, even though I knew mum would be home late. But I thought…"

And this time he looks at Louis.

"I want it to be, like… more real. This time. I wanted to look… real. And… it did to me, that day. I thought I looked so fucking good. And so fucking…  _ beautiful _ . The most beautiful I'd ever felt in my life…" 

And Harry pauses. It's down to his hands again, sinking just a bit more in the chair. It's quiet for too long, time frozen while he plays playing with his rings.

"I didn't know my stepdad came home early."

Doesn't blink, doesn't show emotion.

"He didn't think I looked very good…"

And he lets out a deep breath, clumsy like it was tripped on the way out. But he composes himself again until he's solid. Has to. To say,

"He was fucking scary, you know?" A little grimace. 

Louis's heart twists a bit. And he nods.

That's enough. Harry takes a deep sniff, a deep breath, and quickly wipes his face. Because he wasn't about to dwell. He didn't come for that. He came to see Louis. To be seen _ by _ him. To tell him,

"Haven't liked dressing up so much since then…"

Louis has so many things to say he feels the strain of it like he's being ripped apart. But he knows none of them are what Harry wants to hear. Because he knows him. And he knows Harry doesn't want a thing coming from him to lift his veil. Silent when he whispers,

"I don't know anything…except that…"

Down to his lap. His fingers, the rings twisting and turning the skin red.

"I'm embarrassed…"

As if an identity. So saturated on his painted lips it falls with the weight only a burden could bear.

"I guess, I… feel so disgusting, in my own body." Speaking softer. "If I could… rip off my skin and throw it in a shredder, i would."

And he just breathes for a moment.

"Sometimes I just wanna scream. Because it's… unbearable. It's just wrong, it's all wrong. And I can't do anything about it."

This time he must look at Louis. And Harry says it all in the lowest, grittiest voice, as if to mark a contradiction that rejects harmony. With his appearance. His words.

"Can you imagine it? You wake up one morning, and you don't look like yourself. But no one remembers what you looked like before. And you don't either. You just…"

And then, he must look away.

"...miss it..."

He bites his bottom lip.

"I miss it a lot."

For as long as Louis's known Harry, his gaze has been a flickering cluster of stars with every look taken inside. This time, Louis feels like he can see the entire universe flashing within the beryl. Starry-eyed sorrow. His impossible gemstone. He looks Louis in the eyes.

"I'm a man… "

Just one breath.

"…and I can't take being told I'm not a woman, too…"

Makeup on his scruffy face, a dress on his muscled frame. Aren't they puzzle pieces at odds? An error. A wrong choice presented as the final one, according to Harry's fears. But he can only bring himself to whisper to Louis as soft as he can,

"I'm not happy…"

And it was apologetic.

Louis quickly realizes now how Harry had misconstrued what he always said. That his declarations of affection were meant to be announcements of some condition. That loving him happy means loving him when he poses no conflict to him, presenting no turmoil. Happy. Unburdened. And therefore, no burden to him. If he loves Harry happy, then he won't love him at all.

And then, the other thing. 

The less expected thing that makes Harry's brows curve up. When he lets Louis know in the tiniest voice,

"I wanna be your girlfriend…"

The room is so silent a single breath could echo off the walls. Louis doesn't stop looking at Harry. And Harry doesn't stop looking at him.

He's expecting them to break up today. And had been for a very long time. At least, once he laid his deck of cards on the table. A losing hand, Harry says. That the way Louis loves him does not exist. And he doesn't want to be his boyfriend anymore. He just gives a little shrug. And shakes his head. Speaking feels impossible. 

He wants to be his gay boyfriend's girlfriend.

The words fall right off Louis's lips without him thinking at all:

"Darling, you already are."

_ You're so silly, Haz. _

Harry's eyes are wide, red, lined along the bottom with tears that spill over down his blushing cheeks. Staring at Louis in silence and under a strain that won't let him speak or show emotion. Because he isn't done.

He lifts up his dress. Like he didn't show Louis the worst part, the one that would make him change his mind.

His tucked crotch beneath black, cotton mini briefs. Was it a promise? A dare? Something meant to ward him off? Change his mind? Regret his decision? Louis doesn't know. Because truthfully, he doesn't know Harry. Not the way he used to. Not the way he thought he did.

But he doesn't see how that should be a problem with such an easy solution in his grasp.

Because he's willing to learn.

So, so eager.

More than anything in the whole world.

Louis doesn't stop looking at Harry's mound. Except to give his teary, green eyes a single glance.

Before sinking down between his parted legs.

Louis doesn't think he's ever wanted anything more in his life. Whatever Harry expected, or wanted him to do, he had no idea. He just knew he wanted to dive into the most vulnerable moment Harry was presenting. It was new. And he wanted it deeply, because he longed for Harry even more. 

Harry doesn't protest his actions, so... this must be okay. He's frozen, holding his dress bunched up to his belly as he watches Louis get on his knees and take a look between his hairy thighs. Louis can hear how hard and heavy he's breathing through his stuffed nose, barely able to at all. And when he places his hands on his thighs, he can feel that they're trembling so hard it's almost dreadful. Goosebumps run through his skin and against the palm of his hands when he softly rubs up, down. Harry's breathing harder, faster, loud enough it should be annoying.

Because Louis's face is getting closer. His face is serene, expression soft in his hooded blue eyes. Just taking a look. There's little flowers on Harry's panties, he notices. He half expects them to smell new from the package but he recognizes the detergent they use instead, an observation quickly overshadowed by Louis's next.

It really does look like a pussy. So flat. How did he get it to do that? He's more fascinated by it than anything else Harry must be afraid he's thinking. 

Louis knows that much— that Harry's terrified. Looking up, he sees that he's still crying as he watches him. Active, poorly contained. Fist to his lips, fear in his eyes with hiccups and sniffles. And Louis can't help but lift his head. Was this really okay? Was Harry submitting out of fear of rejection? Unwilling to it all? Louis pulls back.

And to his surprise, Harry spreads his legs, hooking the back of his knees to the arm rests and scooching himself lower on the cushion. He hasn't stopped crying. And knowing this, he brings his hand down to pet Louis's hair and

bring him close again. Back to his crotch. And closer this time.

Maybe it's to prove something to himself, or prove something to Harry, but Louis decides to jump into the deep end. Or, at least, what he believes Harry would never expect him to do.

He pretends Harry's got a pussy. He's got the imagination. And he isn't stupid. He's gay. And it's the last thing he's thinking about. He's thinking about

how wet Harry is. Slick, shining something glossy over his dark labia and pink clit. His cunt's just making a mess with slippery cream leaking in anticipation. Hot enough Louis can feel it on his face. Soft and hairy, begging, throbbing for him. 

What's Louis supposed to do? 

He won't wait, that's for sure. 

He pushes forward and buries his face in Harry's hot, slippery pussy. A moan, a mouthful that leaves his tongue wet. Louis eats and eats until he can't breathe, nose buried in Harry's cunt and rubbing against his labia. He pulls back to take in the sight of it, hand brought up where his thumb can play with his big clit, pulling back the hood and taking him into his mouth.

Harry can't keep still. And he can't keep quiet. Panting, whimpering, writhing down into Louis's fervent consumption. It's a whine when Louis pulls back from his clit, but Louis quickly kisses over it again. And he can't help moaning it—

"Your pussy tastes so fucking good."

And he digs in hungrily again. Louis moves one hand up to squeeze Harry's chest, the fat mound where they sit inside the padded push-up bra. And Harry squeals like the good girl he is, feeling Louis's tongue slide up, down to his leaking hole, then back up to kiss his clit, sucking him into his mouth. His labia is swollen and buries his bearded face in its folds, its silky magenta petals rubbing into his skin. It tastes amazing, and Harry is starting to grind himself down into Louis's face.

Like everything, Louis excels at eating pussy with just minutes of experience. It isn't hard— consuming Harry is second nature. And when Harry digs his fingers into Louis's hair to keep him in place, it feels electric. He's receptive like Louis swears he's never been. Toes curling, eye squeezed shut as tears run down his flushed cheeks, pussy leaking down Louis's throat. 

Until he cums.

Or, at least, shivers and whines like he did. Louis likes to pretend, though it doesn't feel like there's fantasy at play at all. It's so satisfying, dizzying. He wants to do it all over again and never move his face away from the wet heat of pussy.

Takes him a second to realize Harry pissed himself. Didn't come out the front.

"S-Shit…!" Harry sobs, lifting his dress and bunching it to his chest. The red loveseat goes dark under him, soaked. But he's so exhausted and helpless, he just sits there, trembling a bit from what might've been an orgasm. At least to him. 

And Louis has to respect that. It isn't hard— the smell of piss barely registers as he peppers kisses over Harry's pussy through his tiny panties. It's still dry. But he knows he wouldn't mind if it was soaking wet. Can't help but wish that it was. If it was just piss, even— that would've been nice too. He'd tell Harry. Wishing, wishing softly.

Harry's crying. Usually Louis does what he wants about it. But he leaves him to weep silently instead, like pressure releasing from a dark bruise. So he rests his cheek against his thigh, still down in his knees between his legs. And slowly, he finds himself burying his face in Harry's groin again. It smells like piss and Louis just stays nuzzling, lips grazing the dry cotton of his dry underwear. Comforting. Eyes closed, breathing in his intimacy. A kiss. A hum.

He kisses higher, then a bit higher up. Hip kisses, belly kisses. Moving up slow, nuzzling his nose along everything that passes by. What a wonderful thing— 

he's face to face with Harry again.

Sensitive love. Most perfect human in the world.

"Oh it's waterproof." Louis smiles as his fingertips gently tap the wet skin around Harry's makeup, not a spot of the shimmery eyeshadow out of place. "That's brilliant, look at that."

Harry sees no choice but to smile through a choked sob, letting Louis gently wipe his tears away as they fall.

"Thought your face was gonna be a bit messy."

For a moment Louis thought he'd put his hands on Harry's shoulders and comfort him right there. But there was piss under him. Couldn't leave him there. Apparently, Harry doesn't want to stay either. Louis rises to his feet when he sees him make a move.

"Here, let me," he says, hands on the waistband of Harry's panties as he stands up, dress bunched up to his chest in fear. Louis pulls them down quick and helps him step out of them. It's a bit tricky slipping them off the heeled boots. Pointy, red, the heel a narrow stem at the back. It matches his lipstick— he hadn't noticed that.

"I ruined the chair," Harry whimpers.

And Louis assures him with a little laugh, "Who gives a shit about a chair." He reaches to let Harry's fingers loose from his grip on the dress. Once it falls down to his ankles again, Louis reaches behind him to pat down his thighs. "See that, it's dry." And he leans back to check Harry's makeup. "We know that's fine, as well. No harm done. You're alright, darling."

Harry sniffs, giving him a little nod. Brow furrowed.

"Just realized I'm looking up at you— fucking wore some big heels, didn't you? The fuck have you got on?"

Good— Harry laughs as Louis bends down to have another look at those red boots again. 

"Jesus. This is humbling." No wait, that might make him insecure. "I feel like one of those manlets with the supermodel girlfriends."

Harry's smile sinks bigger dimples in his chubby cheeks, crinkles by his eyes. Less pink than they were before— good. 

"Victoria's Secret, yeah?" Louis's hands are on Harry's waist to rub him softly, carefully. Feeling the skin of the dip, the pudge at his hips. "Yeah, Victoria's Secret. Those are always the ones."

"I don't look like a Victoria's Secret model."

"No, you're right."

Harry doesn't look at him.

"You're prettier."

And he still doesn't, smiling at his shoes as his face turns red. And he wipes his eyes all over again.

"You're lovely, so much more beautiful, baby."

Louis's good like that, making it all feel okay. 

"You're so perfect right now."

Harry looks at him, emerald still sparkling with water that falls down his cheeks with a blink. But it isn't sadness in those stardust eyes. It's home again. Warm and fragile, peeled to the bone and shivering under the light. "Wanna kiss you," he whispers. And gives a little shrug, looking at the floor. "If you want…"

Louis must give him his most tender kiss. Tip toes, hands cupping his scruffy cheeks. Somehow he tastes so much sweeter. 

Harry might've thought Louis forgot, but there wasn't a day in 15 months that he didn't think about it. About this.

About her.

And how desperately he wanted to see.

  
  
  


Lights on. Curtains closed. Harry took off his rings and heeled boots while Louis stripped down to his underwear, settling back against the pillows as he approached him. Their bed is always so comfy. King sized and clean. Intimacy always feels amazing on white sheets, the plush mattress beneath. Of course, it's so much more special right now. Louis wouldn't be able to find the words to describe it if he got to thinking about it. Not that he'll be getting to that any time soon.

He's helping Harry slip off the top half of his floral prairie dress. A bit tricky, the zipper being in the back. But Harry just turns on his side, and Louis gets the job done quick and efficient. A bra strap is revealed across his torso, but he doesn't get much of a look. Because when Louis reaches to pull the rest of the dress down, Harry turns over to lie on his back again

"I want that part on," he whines a little.

"Okay."

Louis recognizes it right away— 

the pink and green Risa Magli bra.

Can't help the little curve at the corner of his mouth.

It doesn't match, letting him know the choice in lingerie was deliberate. And maybe, in a broader sense, meant to communicate something. Louis must apologize, because all he can do is trace his fingers along the delicate cotton with a sense of mindless wonder instead of jumping to a real conclusion. Looking down, he can see that the cups are empty. And Harry...

he just looks more vulnerable than he's ever been in his life. He's bright red from his face down to his flat chest, tattooed and heaving. So nervous, sweaty, an expert lost in the performance like he's just a novice. 

Well, maybe he is. Newly debuted. Newly born.

Louis wants to be by his side more than anything. 

So he sinks next to his body and reaches out to hold him against him. And kiss. 

They breathe together, sharing the air between them like it was never meant to be apart. What's the point in making a distinction? Melting against one another suits them just fine. They kiss fervent and desperate, breathing harder with hands reaching to touch whatever they can. One leg hooked onto another, arms wrapping around each other's backs as their bodies press together hard. Needy. In love.

Harry's the first to pull back for air, gasping as he buries his face in the crook of Louis's neck. Pushing in hard, the bra rubbing up against Louis's bare chest. He writhes against him with a clumsy rhythm, as Louis reaches down to pull his floral dress up and grab his thigh. And Louis feels it then, Harry's cock rubbing up against his hip. Harry puts in the effort to establish their new position— holding himself above Louis to kiss his way down his body. And Louis groans softly, propped up on his elbows to get a better view of the show. How Harry drags his red lips down between his pecs. The scruff on his face is prickly on Louis's skin. Little whimpers, nuzzling against Louis's stomach, the hair leading down his underwear. And finally, while his left hand holds his weight up, his right one makes a move. The boxer briefs are pulled down to Louis's thighs with his help, and his erection is revealed. Having a hand stroke him is so nice, Louis thinks.

But what's really exciting is the way Harry's chest has filled out the bra. Holding his weight a bit forward seems to have been the source of magic. They look bigger than he last remembered, and he notices the skin around the bra's band spilling, the flower pattern stretched. And Louis thinks,

he's so, so perfect. Gorgeous, unbelievably beautiful. And he knows just looking at him is what's to account for the hard cock Harry strokes in his hand, now hunched and looking down at it intently. Shying again from Louis's gaze.

"So pretty, baby."

That gets Harry to turn his head, and see that Louis's had his eyes on him the whole time. Harry cracks a little smile. And he's looking away again. Only this time with purpose, moving to slip Louis's underwear off all the way. Oh, that's good, Louis thinks.

But what's even better is Harry hooking his right leg over Louis's, nestling a bit to his side. And lifting up his black dress to hold against his belly. 

That way he can thrust his naked skin against Louis's thigh, and Louis can watch. So soft from the downy hair, his crotch impossibly warm. Louis's reaching down to touch himself, his cheeks burning red and his blue eyes bright with desire. His hard cock looks so big next to Harry's soft one. And maybe there's a list of terminology he doesn't know yet. Things of anatomy and renamed limbs still unspoken.

But Louis can't help but say it: "You've got such a lovely little pussy, baby…"

Harry's eyes seem to sparkle, and a smile spreads across his face as he looks at Louis again. "Mm!"

Louis has to giggle at his enthusiasm, but is quickly breathless in his arousal. Because Harry bites his lip and starts to look down at him all hazy. At last, growing confident in a state of sexual desire. Like he isn't guilty. Isn't afraid.

"Feel how wet you are, darling? You're gushing all over me…"

Harry whimpers, looking down between his legs and where he rubs his groin against Louis's skin. And Louis can only hope he's trying to envision the spoken narrative. Because wouldn't that be nice? To have confirmation that he's doing something right when he purrs,

"Listen to that…" And he smiles. "Got a fucking spout, baby.  _ Shit _ …"

Harry's got a weird little laugh, giddy as he starts to ride Louis's thigh with a frantic, self-indulgent rhythm. Pleasuring himself, trying to decide on a place to look when Louis goes on.

"That cunt's just begging for me, isn't it?"

Louis's face— he's decided. "Yes…"

It's a high, high voice. Something of a squeak, miles away from Harry's deep little drawl. Louis's ecstatic, jerking himself off so hard the precum's got him wet, the bright red tip hopelessly leaking.  _ Again, again, do it again. _ "Tell me what you want, baby…"

Harry mewls, lips parting for a little gasp before biting down on his bottom lip again. And he must look at Louis through half-lidded eyes, shimmery eyeshadow sparkling under the bedroom light when he moans, "Want your mouth on my cunt…"

_ Yesyesyesyesyes _ .

Louis sits up and catches his lips in a kiss. Wet, messy, loud through moans and groans. Until Louis whispers in a single moment apart. 

"On the edge of the bed, yeah?"

"Yeah…"

Harry's quick to follow orders, sitting upright, feet on the floor before hiking up his dress, lifting his legs and leaning back. Louis gets down on his knees, and he pushes Harry's thighs apart. 

So bare. He's spread wide now before him. Pushing his hole out like it's begging for him. "Fuck, baby…" Louis's jerking himself so hard now it's noisy. A sound quickly replaced when he brings his mouth to Harry's gaping hole, and begins to fuck him with his tongue. 

Dizzying appetite, drinking every movement and sound like he's starving. Louis's thinking, longing, swearing it feels more like a pussy since he's loose from all that lonely fucking with nothing but his toys. He slobbers and slurps lazily, tongue flicking all over every twitching, pulsing inch of rosy skin. He rubs his ginger beard into his crack, licks the hairy skin from his balls down to his hole. He swears it sounds like a cunt, imagining as his tongue stays pushing and licking inside Harry over and over, in and out and around. Harry's nice and so loose, hole puffy enough, his tongue going in with ease. He writhes and whines high— she,  _ she's _ making noise. Louis doesn't want him to ever stop. Spreading Harry's ass apart, his hole hot and wet with spit running down his crack. 

And Louis's obsessed.

"Your pussy tastes so fucking sweet, baby." He wants depth and messiness and more, so much more. Wants that pussy Harry dreams about as much as he does. He swears he'd love it as much he wants to, he can taste it. Boy pussy, girl pussy. He wants wetness, slick juice pumping out of him between dark pink labia and into his mouth like he's ripe on the vine. It's wonderful, his juicy cunt. It'd be perfect. It's already perfect. "So thick you're hard to swallow, you know that? So fucking wet…" And he moans, Harry's cheeks pressing hard against his bearded face in his relentless hunger. So devoted, he wants to feel him every way he can. And he wants Harry to feel him back. To know there's never a need to worry. 

Confirmation of his devotion. A blood oath in dirty talk and cocks in cunts.

"Fucking love eating your pussy." Feverish, enraptured. "Fucking best pussy, baby…"

Harry lets out this weak, half-laugh of honest joy as he holds his weight up on his elbows. Eyebrows curved up, but eyes still closed in old, stubborn embarrassment.

"You're so fucking wet," And he sucks on his hole hard before pulling away with a kiss, and then licking up his crack. "Your fat cunt's swallowing me face up, baby." It feels electric leaving his lips. Words he never thought he'd speak, never imagined would turn him on so much and make his cock throb. "I could drink you up all day."

" _ Louis _ …" Harry can't take it, his face bright pink and his lips cherry red beneath the lip tint he put on, making his lips even brighter. He shies before Louis's bold speech as much as he craves it. Rocking his body down hard, riding Louis's face with eyes squeezed shut. 

"Should I give your clitty some attention?"

Harry's eyes shoot open, the white gone pink and glassy as he looks at Louis, who stands up to lean his body down on top of Harry's. Just a little. Eyes burning in his sapphire, ginger beard sticking in every direction. So delighted, enraptured, in love.Harry's hand reaches down to his cock, fingertips running along the base. "M-My…" 

Would he want it to be a clit? Louis wonders. If Harry was considering the anatomy of his fantasy. But he keeps up the momentum, purring, "Get your nice big clit in me mouth, get it swollen up a bit…" Holding his weight with his left hand while the right slips under Harry's bra to rub his nipple with his thumb. Touch up his neck, the hair growing along his jaw, fingers lacing in his sweaty curls.

Harry might be melting, his eyes sparkling wide and wet. Like he can't believe it. Never thought he'd live anything like it. "My clit…"

"Yeah, you want that, baby? It's alright if you don't, yeah? It's alright."

Harry doesn't hesitate. "I want it." With his chest, with legs spread, eyes holding focus without anything to heed him. 

"You sure, darling?"

"I want it so much, please…" Smiling, then. Suddenly so ecstatic. 

Louis grins, gives him a soft kiss. And they giggle, excited, overjoyed everything keeps flowing in perfect harmony. He kisses down Harry's chest gently, massaging and squeezing together his tiny breasts and kissing the crease before it's gone. Butterfly kisses, laurel kisses. And then he's down home. "Fuck…" he breathes. Like he's looking at the parts he's known for a decade for the first time. Overwhelmed, beyond excited to explore. 

So he does. 

He bends down and just does it, takes Harry's soft little cock in his mouth hungrily and sucks hard. And it tastes just as good as his pussy, his ass, the rest of his pussy. Cock, clit, stretching out in his mouth and flattening against his tongue. He gets it in his mouth far enough his lips touch Harry's pelvis. And there he pulls Harry's balls down, the landscape flat. Lips suckling around the very base of his cock, gone, knowing it looks like he's eating out the real thing.

He knows it's convincing when he looks up and sees Harry's eyes wet and glazing over, transfixed on the sight between his legs. Gasping, hips thrusting upward for more despite the stimulation leaving his limb lifeless. 

"Ungh, ungh, ungh…!" Gets like that now, rolling his hips quick as he grabs a fistful of Louis's hair. Louis doesn't stop his relentless sucking, nose pressing into Harry's happy trail. Moaning heavy, hard, hands beginning to rub up Harry's thighs in desperate need for even more intimacy. Harry mirrors his efforts, reaching down to meet and hold onto the top of his hands. His voice climbs sky high, only this time loud. A real voice on Earth. "M-My clit feels so good! Oh  _ f-fuck _ …!" He keeps his eyes on the sight that intoxicates him most. A flawless simulation, the perfect execution. Begging, "Don't stop, don't stop!" Knowing there's no other cue for Louis to go by.

Nothing but Harry's own reality. Maybe theirs. Louis thinks so. And he wants nothing more than to be a part of it.

"I-I'm gonna squirt!"

He moans, brow furrowed as he sucks harder and jerks himself off. Eating pussy— it's true. Harry's pussy is hot, a perfect mouthful. He rides his face with the desperate roll of his hips, gorgeous vigor, his face flushed red and sweat dripping down his temples. Louis knows the sound of Harry reeling in an orgasm, and it's the first time he's hearing it in what feels like forever. But he's terrified of the line cutting off, of changing anything in his technique. It feels like living for Harry's pleasure, for the squeaks and whimpers coming from his girlfriend and the pussy juice he swallows down his throat. Closer, closer, closer. Faster thrusts, harder sucking. 

"I'm cumming I'm cumming I'm cu _ mmi-ing _ !!" 

Harry's squirting just like Louis knows he wants to. Hips thrusted up, toes curled in the air, head thrown back. He's spurting over and over in his mouth and it's dripping out the corner of his mouth— like Harry wants. Like he dreams. Louis's face is damp from his wet labia and his jaw hurts from sucking on his clit so hard. When Harry lets his hips fall, Louis assumes he's stopped cumming. So he lets his cock out his mouth and just licks over it with his tongue. " _ Fuck _ , baby…" Licks under it, kissing the flat space his stretched balls leave. It keeps Harry trembling, whimpering as he slowly lets his legs come down, his face hidden in the crook of his bent arm.

Oh, Louis doesn't want that. He climbs up on the bed and holds himself on top of Harry. And he gently pulls his arm from his face. And it's there when Harry opens his eyes to look at him— that look, those eyes gone pink and wet and absent in some other vision. Green eyes like a sparkling lake. And Louis kisses him like it's divinity on his lips. Pussy juice— he isn't wrong. 

"Your pussy's fucking perfect, Harry…" Isn't that a nice thing to say? "Fucking drowned me in it, so fucking wet…" Holds Harry's face in his hands, moaning as he lets his spit slide down his tongue and onto Harry's, kissing him again. "See how sweet you taste, baby?"

Harry shivers, giving Louis open-mouthed kisses until Louis gets the idea. But Louis has a better one— bending down to his cock again, giving it a suckle, and then returning to Harry's mouth for a kiss, another exchange from his tongue. This time Harry moans his satisfaction.

"Yeah, you like how good your pussy tastes…"

Harry smiles, bottom lip under his teeth as he giggles.

"Creamed all over me mouth, didn't you, babygirl?"

"Yeah…" Another wave of euphoria doused across his face at the dialogue. It's unfamiliar, and Louis could look at him forever. This time Harry wraps his legs, his arms around Louis. Lets their foreheads touch. Louis grinds his hard cock against Harry's big clit, smearing precum all over his skin. 

It's a good time to say it—

"Fuck me."

It feels like a million notes away from the gritty drawl he's known for a decade. And it excites him like nothing else. His blue eyes are vivid, like the sun shining over clear water. Chiseled cheeks flushed and damp, fringe sticking to his skin "Can't wait to be inside you," he breathes.

"You keep making me wet…" Little sweetheart, angel eyes.

"A problem, is it?" 

He makes Harry giggle. "Maybe for the sheets."

"Mm not for me…" And he kisses him. "I'm hungry…"

"Yeah?"

"You make me hungry, baby… Me fucking cock's dying to get a taste…"

Harry reaches his hand down to stroke Louis's dick. Fat, rock hard. And he moves it so the head rubs against his stretched hole. "How's that?"

"Fucking amazing. Fuck. You little tease."

They laugh together, sharing another kiss as Louis's erection pushes against Harry's cunt. Begging, aching. 

Maybe Louis's delusional, but he feels like he's about to be a better fuck then he's ever been before. A maze of missed signals and communication lost in calm waters suddenly looks like the foundation of their relationship all along. Missing puzzle piece— more important for the picture than it led on. Louis can see it now. And more than anything, Louis  _ wants _ it now. Everywhere. Inside it.

" _ Fffuuuckkk… _ "

Harry's pussy feels snug and wet and warm. Like pushing into a piece of heaven. Jaw clenched, stomach twitching at the impossible pleasure of it all. Like he can't stand the limits of his own body. Pulling out slow, a whine slipping from Harry's lips. 

"You feel good, baby?"

"Ungh, yeah…"

"Fuuuck, that pussy's making me feel good…"

And then he needs it— him, that cunt again. And he's thrusting inside him hard with the snap of his hips. Harry squeals in delight, seemingly surprised by his vigor and just  _ happy _ about it. About being…

desired. Wanted. Like this.

It makes him happy. Looking down at Harry, grinding his hips against his ass with a little smile, Louis can see the joy radiating from Harry's flushed skin as he smiles back, all dimples. He reaches his hand down to pull his balls up and lay it flat on top of his cock. Out of sight as he rubs circles on his perineum with the other hand. Harry's meek about it. Louis's got his palms flat on the back of his thighs, squeezing the meat. White, hairy, soft and coy. Body a masterpiece. Babygirl. Baby boy.

Louis wants to see it unfold— when he pulls his cock out, then slowly pushes in again— wants to see how it makes Harry glow.

He glows bright. Glows gold.

"I love you."

It makes her that happy. "I love you." Louis starts fucking her slow, feet planted on the floor, breathing harder than he ought to. Whispers again, "Love you, babygirl."

Harry's a happy girl when Louis kisses him, and he can taste it on the pitch of his whimpers. Girl boy, Narcissus nymph with a cock for a pussy, two pussies, one pussy. Lovely breasts, wide chest. Her tiny cock, his fat clit. It depends on nothing and changes on the tiniest whim. Louis doesn't know because Harry doesn't. Funny. Every time he thought he had the cues figured out he found himself vouching for the wrong answer. Never really a question for there to be an answer to, is the thing. Harry's adrift at sea beneath him, but he's no castaway. Louis would be a fool to reach out and offer land. He jumps in, and he floats. And he goes under. And he swims. They swim. Him and her, together. With him.

It feels so good kissing them both at the same time beneath him. Their pussy sucks his cock in like it's the only place it was ever meant to be.

It feels perfect. It feels better than it ever has.

Louis lets his body fall forward on the bed, palms flat on either side of Harry's as he fucks him, watches him. Harry looks up at him through sparkles aurora skies. Clear green, pupils wide, cheeks red. 

And she makes all the noise she wants. 

"Fuck that pussy, fuck that pussy…!"

Breathing it, living it. Louis does a good job and gives her everything. He hooks his arms under Harry's and grabs him by the shoulders, and he just fucks into him hard. Whimpering, panting in his frantic labor. First time they've fucked in months. In forever, in her.

There's no way in hell he can last long. 

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh f-fuck…!"

Harry knows the sound as well as he does. The way his muscles twitch against him, the snap of his hips coming without rhythm. He pushes himself up off the mattress again after a kiss to Harry's lips. What kind of makeup did he have on to keep it so perfect after all that sweat? Louis doesn't get to ask, he's too dizzy at the way Harry begs,

"Want it 'n my pussy, m-my p'ssy…"

Sultry, such a lustful minx Louis can't stand it. Sucking him in, squeezing down, hands reaching to Louis's hips to pull him harder. The makeup, the bra, the dress bunched at his waist.

"In your pussy, baby? That's where you want my cum?"

Harry grins, breathless little laugh. Does she know what he's doing to him? Louis's just drunk, electric. 

"Such a slutty little girl, aren't you?" Can barely even breathe. "Want that load deep inside. Yeah?"

"Please…" He's so, so sexy. "Come on, baby…" And his hands are hooking behind his knees, gaze shifting between Louis's eyes and the space where his cock is sliding in and out of his cunt. Louis's voice is beginning to break, and Harry keeps pulling him in. Gasping, begging through gritted teeth, "Come on, baby…" Over. "Give it to me, babe…" And over. "Give it to me…!" And over again. "Fuck yes, fuck yesyes _ yes _ …!"

Until Louis casts himself loose, and cums hard enough his legs tremble under his weight. Body falling forward completely. "Ungh…!" And thrusting, still, he cries out into the sweaty skin of Harry's neck, face hot and cheeks red. Body shuttering, breath heavy and loud. " _ Ungh… _ !"

And Harry rubs below his navel, to the absent anatomy he imagines full, fertile. Fulfilled. Potted soil made for seed. Louis spilling over and over with purpose, sucking hickeys into Harry's neck and crying out, still. Like he missed him, needed him more than anything. When Louis lifts his weight up he looks down to Harry's face, how their gazes lock solid and secure. Louis can barely breathe, still. And he's still rocking his hips, half-hard cock snug inside. Harry looks down at it, caressing his hairy tummy with content whimpers behind his bitten lip. And Louis joins his own hand.

"Nice and deep in your pussy, baby…" Smiling when he sees Harry mewl happily. "Yeah?"

Harry starts rocking his weight, fucking himself on Louis's cock with deliberate squeezes on his shaft. Moaning, touching Louis all over and hooking his legs around him.

Oh, Louis gets it. And luckily for him, his oversensitive cock is rock hard in his impossibly wet pussy. Eager, willing, like it was never a question that it would keep fucking him. It hurts, in all honesty. And he loves it under an even more sincere confession. "You feel like a fucking dream inside…" Panting. "I could be in you forever…" Bending down for one kiss, just one.

Louis lifts himself up, and stands straight again. Palms flat on the back of Harry's thighs again. Fucking him hard, frantic again. Anything, everything, over and over and over again.

Harry's writhing, panting quick in the new momentum Louis spoils him in. And Louis watches as he starts rubbing his index and middle finger down around his soft, little cock. "Mmh!" Rubs the space beneath them, over his balls. Hard, hand trembling like it can't keep course. "Gonna cum again…!" It makes him moan, and then it makes him giggle, head thrown back onto the bed. "F-Fuck…!"

"Yeah?" Louis looks down at Harry's efforts, mesmerized by the technique. His eyes are wild when he looks at Harry again, smirking. "Three times in one night, baby?" he giggles.

And Harry loves the teasing, rubbing his clit faster with a breathless giggle. "Yeah!" A squeak.

Louis drops down, kissing down his neck and over his tattooed, heaving chest. "You're so fucking good, baby…"

"Wanna cum on your face…"

Lifting up his bra to set sights on his tits. "Yeah?" Running his hands up his spread thighs as he sucks on the hard nipples. Harry writhes and gets that playful whining going. "You sound needy, baby." And Louis suckles hard, fucking into his hole again and again. "Gotta give baby what she wants, huh?"

Harry rocks his body, meeting with the slamming of Louis's hips on his ass and stroking his pussy hard. "Yes!" Legs wrapped around his waist. "On your face— pleaseplease…!" Giggling at his own insistance and delighted by Louis's teasing like always. Wiggling his ass now with another bratty whine.

Louis gives him, her, him a kiss on the cheek before pulling out, and moving down to his pussy again. Knees on the wooden edge of the bed frame, face hovering over the space where Harry strokes and rubs hard. Harry's deeply pleased, even moreso when Louis slips two fingers inside him, then quickly three. Jabbing in and out fast, every thrust leaving more of Louis's own cum leaking out Harry's hole and running down his fingers. "God, you're so fucking wet, babe…" Louis has to fist his own cock, aching and throbbing in lust. " _ Fuck _ …"

Harry's rubbing his cock between his index and middle finger. Frantic, hard circles to where the hood of his clit would be, the tips of his fingers reaching for the place his labia would be. Could be. Louis imagines it wet and dripping, twitching against Harry's touch.

“You got that pussy so nice and wet for me, baby…" Humming, "So fucking good…”

Harry's eyes are shut tight, his head thrown back.

“Your clit’s just throbbing for me, innit? Look at that…"

Concentrating on his fantasy. Gasping at the stimulation, physical, emotional, overwhelming every sense.

"That pussy's gonna squirt all over me, yeah? That what you want, baby? Wanna make a mess?"

His hips thrust and his thighs quiver, breathing hard with fingers fucking his pussy and his touch on his clit. "Want my cum all over you…!"

Louis grins, feeling how Harry clenches on him. "Yeah?" Pleasuring him like it's all that matters. His arm aches, his thighs tense and weak. He looks down to Harry's hole again, creamy wet pussy. 

"Wanna cum all over your fucking face…!"

_ Please please please _ , Louis wants to beg, holding himself right above Harry's cock with eyes focused and wild. "Come on, baby…" Swallowing the sight, gaze darting from Harry's pussy to his face. Jerking off fast, fist squeezing his wet shaft. "That's it…" Drunk on the sound.

"Fuck…!"

On cock.

"Oh, f-fuck…!"

On cunt.

"Oh fuck! Oh fuck  _ fuck _ !!"

Louis cums first.

Harry cums dry. 

He just pisses all over Louis in the break of his orgasm. Or maybe to make the roleplay real, spraying Louis with something— anything. Louis doesn't mind. 

Mindlessly, he rubs his hand into the wet spots on his chest, hid jaw. Smiling at the thrill, at the marvel of Harry's new orgasm and the mechanics of it all. Amazing, more than anything, the way Harry works himself like another biology. It's real, Louis thinks. Why shouldn't it be? Harry's fat pussy is throbbing and dripping wet from squirting all over him just like Harry wanted. “That's a good girl…”

He's shivering, breathing sharp in his chest and thrusting up into his hand. Louis just touches him. His belly, his waist. That makes Harry whimper steady and small, left hand reaching to hold onto Louis's wrist. Louis wants Harry's voice to go as high as he wants, so he mothers him. 

"That's it, darling…" Harry must get the idea, because his voice gets higher, smaller. "That's it…" Tiny, a little peep up to the roof of his mouth, far back in his throat. "That's it, baby…"

Harry's body starts going lax, legs coming down as his fingers circle around his clit with less force. Slow. Lazy. Louis spends the last of his energy moving them both higher up on the bed, enough for him to finally lift his feet off the ground. And he just nestles between his legs, and collapses completely. Sweaty bodies flushed in lovemaking. Their soft members rub together for the sake of closeness, Louis holding himself above so he can watch. To see their affection given, touches warm and grounding. 

It's then that Harry opens his eyes and looks up at him. And it falls from Louis's lips:

"You're my girl, aren't you?"

She leans her head into him and makes a little sound as both hands clutch Louis's where it strokes her hairy jawline. "I'm your girl." In that high, high voice she keeps high in her tower.

Louis sinks slow, body meeting with hers. "Always gonna be my good girl…" 

She lifts her leg and hooks it around Louis until he holds her back, on his side a bit so he never loses sight of her emerald light. She stays fixed to his blue.

"I'm always gonna be with you… Hm?"

"Your girl…"

"My girl…"

Enough of sandcastles and victories to champion his righteousness. His need to be the hero of every fable. Better to hold tight in a moving tide. Better to be a home than a sanctuary, and abandon the futile quest to mend the pieces being put together the wrong way. Never at odds, never blind. Better to live in the helpless, cruel humanity of it all. To witness it.

To stay.

That's the way it has to be for a while. Resting in a dreamscape. They can touch and feel, smell their sweat, kiss whenever the band keeping their hearts together feels just a centimeter too lax. So needy, both of them. Desperate to hold, and be held back.

It comes in the waning of that complex that Louis sees the reality of Harry's affliction with unbearable closeness.

"Shall I run us a bath, darling?"

Harry stays quiet. Rubs her nose like she's busy, sitting on the bed.

And Louis  _ feels _ it, the air around them shifted like the sun gone cold. A fear that keeps Harry silent and chewing on her lip.

The fear that she only got to exist in a session. Fleeting, gone with an orgasm that craved only a moment's fetish, and would face a hasty rejection at her overstayed welcome.

And it's the absence that Louis feels. The missing figure that leaves a hollow place like a canyon stretching miles.

"Babygirl." 

Harry looks him in the eyes with the most gentle surprise. It bothers Louis that she expected to never see daylight again. But knowing her pretty, doe-eyed face is the picture of relief is enough to get him smiling just a bit, leaning his head on the bathroom doorframe. 

_ It was real. You can stay. _

"Yeah, a bath."

Hearing that sweet little voice again feels like the air is breathable again. It's different to hear her without the lense of arousal between them, and he understands why Harry came faced with terror without explicit invitation. Of course it's different. Harry is, him/her. Louis doesn't want to ever go back to whatever gates kept them separate, limited within the single frame they were born into. He wants it all. Louis smiles, and walks over just to leave her a kiss on the nose. 

"But don't, um—"

And he freezes. "What?"

Harry stretches her limbs and gets off the bed. "I'll fix the bath." Slips her dress off. "That's my job, you don't know what you're doing."

Louis scoffs wide-eyed. "I do too!"

"Last time you dropped a toilet cleaner thinking it was a bath bomb."

"It did clean it, though. I remember it was quite grimey."

"I never let anything get grimey in this house."

"Well you let the bathtub get grimey."

Harry narrows her eyes. "I did not."

"With your sweat and your grease."

Defamation of character— she gasps and gives him a good smack in the head. And runs off laughing when Louis chases her into the bathroom for payback.

  
  
  


Sirens have wings— a fact known by few. Not Louis, apparently. 

"So you see, I'm not a siren, Louis."

"I see."

"I'm a mermaid."

"Yeah, yeah."

Harry really is. After an hour of pruning in shimmery pink water Louis had to get out of the tub and finally dry off. But Harry— she couldn't bear the thought. To her it felt like barely minutes in water. She reads, eats, and watches the telly almost always during her baths. She wasn't about to step out to join Louis on land. Louis knew what that meant.

"Alright, alright. I'll stay."

Harry was in the mood for white cheddar cheese puffs— Louis had to get that first. He returned swiftly, along with the wooden bathtub caddy. Louis sat on a fluffy bath mat by Harry's side upon mutual agreement to cling to one another; man and mermaid. 

One thing not agreed upon, however:

Golf.

Harry—

she likes watching golf tournaments.

And Louis can't stand the sport.

He is, however, today's bathtime buddy, so he mustn't leave the side of his very best friend. He enjoys leaning his weight on the edge of the tub, one hand inside to eat cheese puffs and fiddle with whatever parts of Harry he can reach. Her hair is wet, her makeup still in tact. Naked means he can have a peek and stare at her tattooed frame beneath the pink water. Isn't she such a rockstar? Looks at her, finds any excuse to make contact in spite of the clashing elements keeping them apart. Just a tub-- what a baby. Right now his fingertips trace the cleft in the center of her chest. And Harry,

she just stays watching a rerun of the 2019 Sanderson Farms Championship on the flatscreen they have up on the bathroom wall. 

_ "99 yards to flag, plays uphill wind…" _

Cameron Champ makes his move.

_ "...just a hair to the left." _

And the golf ball goes flying.

_ "Just a smooth swing there with the 60 degree…" _

And it lands barely a yard away from the flag.

_ "Wow!" _ the American announcer raves while the crowd claps softly.  _ "How about that for control out of that rough? _ "

Harry pops a cheese puff in her mouth, and says with a crunch, "Nice."

_ "That is fantastic!" _

"You know what's funny?"

She turns her head to Louis. "Hm?" 

"Me chest hair grows curly, and yours grows a bit straight."

Harry giggles small with a snort.

"We have some on our nipples as well, don't we?"

"Yeah."

Louis wants to tell her something. 

Wants to tell her so many things. 

"Things don't ever turn out the way we think they will, do they?"

He can see the space Harry keeps around herself coil and shrink. Doesn't look up as she shakes her head, playing with the water instead of facing what she must've felt was cause for guilt. An inconvenience. That she was a hurdle life threw at Louis to challenge his intellect and test his strength.

"But you've always been a good woman to me."

Harry looks at Louis with wide eyes.

"I got pretty fucking lucky, didn't I?" 

Harry's face begins to turn red, her eyes sparkling red with water. She hiccups once. Then giggles tiny. "...That's really nice, to— of you to say…"

Louis understood that there wasn't a binary for Harry, but he wanted to indulge them further. Let them be the side they were insecure about, the side they kept beneath their skin. The side they'd been denied all their life. Louis wants them to hear how real it'll be with him.

And he wants to spoil them in it.

"You're a beautiful girl, Harry."

Louis hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath for the past 10 years until he breached the surface and felt relief. 

How remarkable to see rainfall for what it is.

There isn't anything he wants to think anymore. No hesitation just to calculate odds. Having Harry there with him, there isn't anything Louis wants to come between him and the sight of her. He just wants her to know,

"I've been selfish, and hurtful. And I'm sorry that I have been."

"You've been good to me, Louis," Harry tells him softly. She sniffs, looks into his eyes.

"No, I've been stupid. I didn't… I didn't wanna understand." And shaking his head, 

Louis must confess, 

"I didn't wanna see you. When you were right in front of me all along. So beautiful."

Harry gives a little smile, her cheeks red with her sensitive blush. 

"You're my girl. My sweet girl. Funny girl, smart girl, fucking talented, gorgeous girl. You're perfect. And you belong to me."

Louis hopes, more than anything, that his love beams like a lighthouse through whatever uncertainty could cloud the path ahead. Harry looks weightless. Flushed red and wet as curls stick to her forehead. Picture perfect, Valentine worship in her heart-shaped eyes. Louis would never betray them. He'd never betray her. 

A kiss. May it all be sealed forever from the sea as they sail away.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Bath time gets cut a bit short. And Harry never finds out where Cameron Champ scores on the leaderboard.

Once on the bed and under the covers, their bodies feel forever fused. Harry scoots down so she can rest her head against Louis's chest, head tucked under his chin. And Louis pulls the duvet up to tuck around Harry, up to her shoulders. She smiles the whole time she's being spoiled. Snuggle time. The gesture makes her even clingier, the heat of the blankets only making it worse— she squeezes Louis's body hard against her own with a leg hooked on top. And Louis holds her right back, left hand in her short curls, right hand clasped to Harry's hand where it rests on his chest.

It feels like where life was always meant to take him. Like 28 years of walking were meant to bring him at the foot of this moment, this new beginning and the clarity that comes with it. This life. He's never been more sure of the choices he's made, and the mistakes that brought the truth to his eyes. He's sorry. But he wouldn't change a thing.

Because Harry's snoring. And she's heavy. And warm. And soft. Different, the way she's always wanted. Barely getting started down her road to nirvana. Louis just hopes he can keep holding her hand, knowing his own paradise will be at her side forever so long as he never lets go of her lovely, manicured hand.

He never will.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and let me know what you think in the comments.


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